


Thesmophoria

by d00biusc0nsent



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood and Torture, Cock Cages, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Force Choking, Forced Orgasm, Glove Kink, Healing Sex, Horror, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Multi, Orgasm Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Humiliation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Riding Crops, Ritual Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Violence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma Bonding, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13210875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d00biusc0nsent/pseuds/d00biusc0nsent
Summary: Dark, slow burn smutfic with a plot that focuses on Dom!Kylo/sub!reader. Hints of Domme!Phasma. Eventually will be a Rey/reader/Kylo fic - it's always been my intention for this fic to be a paradise for kinky bi girls, but all are welcome to read of course.Unaligned with the Resistance, though opposing the First Order, you are equal parts artist and thief. Your disruptions and threat to the secrecy of the Order draws the attention of their Commander, who has killed your apprentice and taken you prisoner... or is there another reason why he's keeping you as a pet?





	1. Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first *dark* smutfic, as well as its first draft. Please leave a comment! It would be great encouragement to continue the story. Check me out on tumblr and we'll chat Kylo Ren/Star Wars! 
> 
> My main blog,[harl3quinsmil3](http://harl3quinsmil3.tumblr.com), and my NSFW side blog, [d00biusc0nsent](http://d00biusc0nsent.tumblr.com)!

1.

You awoke to blackness, the world hidden behind sluggish eyelids. All was still. Your instincts told you to keep it that way, to resist the urge to move a finger or bend a knee. It seemed easy, the stillness. Should you be panicking, you wondered? Your head was swimming in a void rimmed with a distinct lack of clarity. There was a coolness around your body, especially against your back. Brisk like static winter air. 

Were you even you? Had your death claimed you in slumber and this was it, the nothingness of purgatory? No. You were a tree, solitary on a hilltop from back home. Your arms became branches and your legs became roots and the need to move or see was gone. All you felt was the chill. All you heard were leaves, rustling. You could nearly smell the moss and the sweet flowers, the pungent aroma of wet earth. It was the peace you had searched for, sacrificed for. Finally, it was yours, and you asked no questions. 

The tranquility was fleeting. As you fell deeper into that forest of dreams, there was a nipping pain in your trunk. It felt so foreign, this sting. You ignored it, at first, until you couldn't. Your branches wouldn't heed your urgent need to rid your wooden temple of this gnawing. The pain started coming in wracking waves. You had no eyes to open to see this attack on your body. There was only the paralysis and the biting. No, stabbing. It felt like a stake being driven into your core. No, several. Driven in by a black figure skirting the edges of your mind's eye. You had to get away, but it was hopeless. Were you already witnessing your second death?

In the pitch there was a muffled voice. Were you being rescued from this monster?

“No,” the voice answered, low and mechanical. Boots took steps of purpose, but it was certainly not dirt beneath them. Tile? Cement?

Hearing a voice should have been a comfort in your confusion, but you knew that answers would only bring more pain. Still, they were necessary if the agony was to stop. It was searing at that point. 

“Please help me, whoever you are,” you forced out in a whisper. 

“An unfair request, vandal. Art thief. Open your eyes. You've been helped,” the filtered voice spat. “You should be dead. You still could be. Maybe it would have been preferable for you. It took a long time to pry all of the nails out of you, I hear.” 

With all of your focus, you pushed through the haze of this fabricated woodland. The sun that had been hitting your leaves now felt just as cold and counterfeit as the breeze. Your eyes cracked open, eyelashes glued together by sleep. 

Your sick rushed to your throat and a cold sweat took over. There was no forest and you were certainly no tree. The crisp air was nothing more than a metal slab and the sunlight a glass bulb embedded in the ceiling. What should have been a palette of sky blue and leaf green was the uncaring gun metal grey of a small room. A box. A cell. A sob parted your lips. 

“There she is,” the figure from the forest replied. It was surely a wraith of death. What else could cast such a shadow, draped top to bottom in cloth of night?

Your vision doubled and blurred, but you managed to focus on its boots, just a short distance from you. The wraith gave you a moment more to collect your shards of memory of the day before. It all started coming together when you dared to look at your own body. Your very much human body. The stakes were a falsehood, but the pain was indeed real. Naked, save for the bandages around your stomach and right arm and left leg. Your breath hitched as clarity came rushing back. The tears started brimming and spilling over as you lost control of your breathing pattern. 

A sharp slap to your face sent you reeling into the void, harder than any punch you've taken. The second one brought you back, brought it all back. 

You saw flashes of the previous night, of the violence. You remembered the burning in your calves as you ran for your life. One moment, it had been pure adrenaline and flight. The next, your horizon was tilted. The shadow. 

Trembling on the icy slab, you dared to look up into the eyes of your captor. Some corner of your mind urged you to. You were met with only the stare of empty metallic sockets on a grated black mask. The only well known image of First Order Commander Kylo Ren. You had seen this 'face' more times than you could count, making a mockery of it every opportunity. Posters and statuary failed to grasp the terror of this creature in the flesh. 

“You think you don't deserve this. You do,” he said. “An incessant vex against my ambitions.”

“Ambitions?” you dared to say, forcing your words through a coppery tang between your teeth. It came out stiff through your bruised jaw. “Your corrupt greed, you mean.” You spat blood onto the floor, splashing those pristine boots of his, surprised that no teeth clattered along with it. 

His silence was more foreboding than any words he could have chosen to use as a threat. You kept your eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears. There was so little dignity to be had. 

“You're my tool to use now, defacer. Instigator. All you clearly wish to do is sow chaos. To keep this galaxy in a constant state of decay. To make a mess,” he hissed into your face, releasing the cuffs that held you to the wall from afar. Your arms fell, numb from lack of blood. You cringed as the life came flooding back.

You flinched. A chair that was in the corner now dropped unceremoniously before you. He sat,  
a couple of feet away. “Well?” he questioned. 

“I-I don't know what you want,” you pleaded, holding your prickling arms around you. You curled into yourself, trying to seem as small as possible. 

“Do what you do best to the things that belong to me. Make a mess.” He hunched over, elbows propped on knees. His infamous lightsaber was in view then at his side, no doubt on purpose. He waited as though his request had been obvious. 

“A mess of-” you trailed off, clouded by confusion and drugs. 

“This metal slab that is now your bed. Your home. Defile it like you do my buildings and halls.” His demand was almost casual, emotion lost in the monotonous tone. 

“I don't see any paint,” you whimpered, hoping he'd just tell you exactly what he wanted. “With what?” You begged with your eyes and open palms. 

The Commander leaned closer. You could hear his breath hitting the inside of his mask. His body heat felt glorious but unwelcome. “Get creative. That's what you do, isn't it? You choose a medium. Or I do.” 

You recoiled as a gloved hand reached for you, stroking your chin. Stillness was all you knew as you waited for blinding pain. Fingers traced your jawline down to your collar bone, stopping just short of your heaving chest before moving back up again. You almost relaxed. But then the pain came, like you knew it would. His grip was impossibly strong around your mouth, squelching your lips into your teeth. Blood oozed down your throat and in between his fingers. He didn't make a noise as the room echoed with your chokes and sobs. You assumed he was studying you behind his wall. In an instant, he was apparently bored of what he was seeing. Your head was thrown aside in disgust. Another deluge of red. Your head spun, and it was all you could do to stay conscious, to focus on the metronome of droplets smacking the slab. 

“I want you to fuck yourself for me.” His words were little more than a whisper. They barely registered, and he took notice. He forced your knees apart and pushed you back against the wall. “Take. Your fingers. And get. Yourself. Off.”

You were shaken, but attentive after witnessing his displeasure. Your injuries were starting to scream, but not as loudly as the threat of further repercussions. “Yes, yes, okay,” you managed. 

Sobbing softly, you complied, reaching down between your legs. You pushed a finger over your clit, slipping it into your folds. To your horror, you weren't as dry as you had expected to be. Not at all, in fact. The heat emanating from your sex was just as obvious. Leather gloves creaked as his grip tightened around your thighs. He had noticed. You shut your eyes to escape the embarrassment, escape your captor audience. It didn't help. His speakers crackled as he sharply inhaled and exhaled. He could smell you through his breathing apparatus. It should have disgusted you, and maybe it did, but the muscles of your traitorous pussy clenched at the notion. 

“Don't forget what I asked. What I commanded,” he corrected. “Deeper. More.”

With no hesitation, you plunged a finger into your hole and worked at the sensitive spot beyond your entrance. Your juices began to flow. Your cheeks burned, listening to the wet sounds ricochet off every surface. You added another finger.

“Who do you report to in the Resistance?” he asked, voice husky. 

“What? I don't!” His right hand lowered just enough to squeeze at the hole in your left leg. Red saturated the bandage. “I don't!” you screamed. “Please!”

“I didn't tell you to stop,” he interrupted your panic, refusing to ease up until your fingers were back inside. The cruel hand reached up to your temple and hovered there. There was a tug in your memories that felt like more of a violation than what was happening to you in the physical world. You never believed the stories of force users, not really. But the way the Commander leafed through your brain like a secretary through file folders was undeniable. You stared up at the bulb, helpless. Your fingers pumped your g-spot frantically, devoted to compliance. 

“Just a fool with a brush after all,” he said, resuming his grip on both of your thighs. “The Axiom. A lone traitor to the Order. Is my wrath worth what little you and your partner's treason accomplished? You disgust me. Finish.”

“Maybe I'm not officially with the Resistance. Maybe I don't know their names. But they'll know mine!” 

“Will they?” he patronized. “A sea of thankless faces. Be grateful your ties to the rebels are loose. We'd be having less fun.” The leather bound grip slipped from your thighs to your ankles, bringing your lower half up with him as he stood. Your neck was angled into the wall, threatening to snap against the weight he applied. He increased the gap between your legs, wingspan wide. You endeavored to close it, to retain a shred of modesty. He corrected the folly with no real effort, but you could feel his nails dig into you through his gloves. 

Your teeth sank into your lip in reply, focusing to do as he asked despite the impossibility. It had never been easy to force an orgasm out of your body. Muscles tensed, you put your withering effort into finding completion for your own sake. Despite the agony, you could feel your climax building. You just hoped it would come soon enough. You moaned and sobbed, wounds tearing from the effort. 

Then finally, your orgasm washed over you in a wave of needed pleasure. It was over.

You hadn't even caught your breath when the vice grip disappeared. To your knees, you crumpled, clawing at his robes for balance. He stepped back, presumably to watch you scramble on the cell floor. 

“We're not done. You're going to do something new. For me. Your first act as a servant of the First Order. My Order.” He paused for what had to be dramatic effect. “I know up close just how much of a mess you can make. Prove to me you can fix it. Clean it up.”

Black spots darted around in your vision, but you reached to remove a bandage as a replacement for a cleaning rag. A fist grabbed you by the scalp, pulling back, taking a bit of hair with it. “No,” he said, pushing your face towards the edge of the slab. With his other hand, he shoved two fingers into your mouth, jerking you around by the jaw. “With this.” He stepped back, confident you got the idea.

Panting, you reached for the bed with the tip of your tongue. Your cum was dripping over the edge. You caught a few droplets in your mouth before slaking your tongue up over the side, catching what was falling to the floor. Your captor was silent, but you could feel his eyes on you, burning. Determined to get through the ordeal, you lapped up the puddle where you had been hovering. You even took care to swipe away any rogue droplets that had splashed further out. 

“Not done,” he repeated, annoyed. A boot connected to the back of your head, pushing your nose to the floor. “All of it. Or you'll be mopping up the blood too.” You complied again, raking your tongue across the floor, licking up cum and tears alike. His boot lifted. 

Your entire body was sticky with sweat, cum, saliva, tears, and blood. You wanted to beg him to make it stop, that your body had nothing left. You didn't have to.

“Someone will be in to patch you back up. I wouldn't move until then. Reflect on this.”

With a swirl of robes and the hiss of the air lock, the wraith was gone. Your face was paralyzed in grief. So much so that your sobs were empty, mouth agape. Curling up on the floor, shivering, you did as your captor asked. Your mistakes had never been so clear.


	2. Pomegranate Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After too many days in solitary, Kylo Ren retrieves you from your cell. At least you see the starlight again...

2.

Your door hissed open. On half healed limbs you scurried to the corner, struggling to breathe evenly. It had been a medical droid, doctor, or both before. Intrusive visitors, but helpful ones. Because of their daily inspections, your wounds were healing with little scarring. Your physical condition had become the least of your concerns. You leaned forward, welcoming the ritual of it all, but then your eyes met the shadow that followed the physician. Tucking into yourself was your instinct, but you made eye contact with the beast through his blank mask. At least you had superior bravery, reacquainting with your abuser with unafraid eyes.

The exchange was silent despite the colorful words threatening to bubble to your lips. You had done plenty of reflecting like the Commander had asked. Still, your pulse was pressing you further than your logic. You complied with the doctor as she examined you for the nth time. Then, with only a nod, she was gone. 

You went to take a breath, to prepare to say something to prove you weren't broken. Air rushed as the door opened. More people, but with tools. Your hands shot in front of you, pleading for a scrap of mercy. Theirs grabbed you, holding you still as they stripped your prisoner garb, throwing it into a bin. You struggled to cover yourself, from the cold, from the staring. Their grip was too strong. One held you as the other snapped parts and pieces onto an instrument of some kind. When the button was pressed, you braced for some new world of torment, but felt a splash instead. You ended up yelling anyway. Ice water blasted your goose flesh. Teeth chattered and tears burned as you endured the bristles of a brush that seemed more suited to pots and pans. Globs of soap slid down your legs, threatening to unbalance you. A full bucket fell over your head. You gasped, caught in a breath, choking. They left without even the decency to dry you like they would a dirty dish. Your rags were gone with them. 

Sniffling, you sat, arms tucked around your chest. The Commander's presence was too intimidating not to feel. “Throwing me into a sonic would have been easier,” you said, shuddering. 

“True,” he synthesized, sloshing through the runoff. You cracked open an eye to get a peak at his boots. They were clean and shining again like the cell floor. It was hard to tell that this had been a crime scene. “You'll be coming with me, vandal.” He dropped his cloak into your line of sight, crumpled at your own feet. You went to grab it, to pull its warmth around you, but decided against it. 

You expected the worst as you rose from your slab of a bed, feet planted on the comfort offering. “No, thank you,” you added, submitting your wrists to him. He hesitated before securing the cuffs and pushing you towards the door. 

“It's a long walk,” he said, pulling the cloak up to drape over his shoulders. He flipped up the hood. “So be it.” 

To your surprise, the halls were just as silent as your cell had been. You had expected chatter among workers, at least. Only footfall and the hum of power hidden behind the austere interior of any First Order base. Your captor hurried you along, forcing you to keep up with his strides. His fingertips were spread about your back, ever pushing you ahead of him. 

Your eyes darted, memorizing as much as you could in your state of mind. So far, there had been no audience to the spectacle. That changed when the elevator door a few steps ahead opened. There were at least a dozen people inside. Officers and workers alike shared the same expression of shock to see a soaked, naked woman coming straight at them. The crowd split as if you had been sharp. He spat out the floor number. A small cook went to press in the button, tea cups rattling on her tray. She hesitated, realizing that the floor had already been selected. For a moment, she made eye contact with you. Her gaze went back to the floor, expression quickly catching up to yours as the gravity of something hit her.

“Please,” you let slip, begging her to look at you. “Help m-” The smell of leather filled your lungs. His glove had slapped over your mouth.

With quite a grip on your healing bicep as well, the Commander stood behind you, boots pressed to naked heels. You stared ahead at the shut elevator door, knees daring to buckle as the room lurched up. No one spoke. There was a permeation of fear and not just in you. It lingered in every person that came and went as you traveled to what had to be the top. You somehow had room in your heart to feel sympathy for the cook, then the only other person left in that elevator ride from your nightmares. Hers too, you guessed. You hoped it was the worst thing she'd had to put up with on the job. Silent tears fell. 

“We're here,” he warned you, pressing you forward by the small of your back. “The room on the far right.” The cook dipped her head and shrank into the corner as you were swept by her. You had never wanted to have polite conversation with someone more. 

Once inside, he sat you down next to him at a table meant for a much larger meeting. Shadows fell away from the skylight. All of the furnishings seemed otherworldly, like ink given form. You could still hear the tray rattling. Looking up, you saw the cook. She looked like she wanted to knock, hesitating, but chose to step inside. With delicate hands, she placed glasses and various containers before you. Her shoes squeaked as she turned, clearly in a hurry to get away from whatever was about to happen to you. 

A deft hand halted her retreat. You heard a small gasp from her, surprised by the tether around her wrist. “Towels,” he said, keeping her there too long. “Please. Don't hurry.” He let her go. She nodded emphatically, rushing for the door.

Darkness was a comfort there after so many days under an artificial sun. Finally, a nightfall. Relaxation was almost an option. You stared at the reflective surface of the table and the tea service. They mirrored the stars that hung outside the window. With cuffed hands, you traced the edges of the cup closest to you, waiting for a word to be spoken. Your thoughts wandered to the other cup.

“You're wondering if you'll get to see my face,” the Commander pierced the quiet. He sounded pleased, but it was hard to tell through the mask. His posture remained static. It was true that you were more than curious about what a wraith looked like under its hood. 

“Are you human?” you asked, a bit too bravely.

“In a sense. How human do you feel?” 

“More than you, I'm sure. Only animals behave like you. I know it was you who killed my apprentice,” you dared. You recoiled into the chair, muscle memory recalling his ferocity.

“Such loyalty. I admire that. Would he have avenged you, I wonder?” His legs crossed. “Would he have done a better job of it? Those bombs were awfully crude. Effective, but crude. You should stick with your talents.”

Your healing tissue stung at the mention. Grimacing, you focused on not reliving the pain of nails piercing your body. Your own nails, poured into your own bombs, detonated by your own hand. Commander Kylo Ren had been your failed target. “You'd be dead,” you blurted out. 

He ignored the drama you were skirting. “You're being given a chance, little no one. To be someone.” The Commander offered his words with what could have been a lilt of hope in his tone. 

“At freedom?” you asked, just wanting to get to the point. 

“More than you have now.” One gloved hand pressed down on your fingers, stilling them. “And less.”

You guffawed through swelling tears. “Tell me more, this has to be interesting. What could the Order's animal want with a lowly vandal? Are you going to hand me a bag of spray paint and have me graffiti the Resistance fleet? What shall it be? A cruiser sized pinup of Leia Organa?”

His hand gripped yours more and more tightly, reminding you of what it could do to your flesh. If he wanted a noise from you, you weren't going to give it to him. “You won't want to talk for the remainder of our time here. Believe this,” he urged you. “Your work is powerful. It sways people. I've seen it happen, seen the lives lost. You can't deny those lives you've taken like you do the rest, the lives that are taken to do 'what's right'.” He squeezed harder. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, suppressing a whimper. “These are dangerous. They belong to me now, regardless what you choose to do with them.” You lifted your chin up, coercing your tears to stay where they belonged. “You can use them to be my new propagandist. You'll have a small room to live and work in. Or,” he paused. “You can assist me more personally.” 

The torrent. Tears raced down your cheeks and smacked against your bare thighs. With his free hand, the Commander soaked the wetness from your face. Crushing with one, caressing with the other. You recoiled, trying to forget how that grip felt around your jaw. “What happened to your lead propagandist?” you dared to ask.

“Executed. He was slipping hidden messages into his work. You were wondering if that's something you could get away with it, were you not?” He let you go to sit back and watch you sob. “To ease your guilt of choosing the easy answer? Don't try it.”

You couldn't bear the thought of working for the First Order, of furthering the reach of their blight in any way. “Is it not enough that I'm off the streets? That my thorn has been taken from your side?”

“No. The thorns were irritating, but worth it if if the rose is mine. With a talent like yours, I could recruit countless. No force necessary. The seduction, the coercion you wield has a purpose, a place in this future I'm carving. I know all you see is a butcher, but if you look past the surface, you'll see a sculptor. I'm an artist as you are! You can't see it, but you will,” he spat. 

“You're no artist,” you challenged. “You'll take and take.” A weak retort, you knew, but the adrenaline was wearing off and you could feel yourself crashing. 

“Isn't that what a sculptor does? Cut away and cut away until something beautiful is revealed? Work with me,” he demanded. “or belong to me.”

Your head was shaking back and forth before you had time to process. After everything your friends had sacrificed, the prospect of working with the devil smacked of the ultimate betrayal. Each muscle tensed as you expected to take a blow somewhere on your body. The violence never came. 

“So be it,” he conceded. “I have other plans. Besides, this uniform suits you.” You assumed that he meant your cuffs, but a glint caught your attention. A band of polished, black metal rotated above his upturned palm. It caught the starlight as it twirled. “You'll be glad to have this,” he assured you, focusing power into his other hand. Any of your stray hairs twirled away with a flick of his fingers. The band floated towards you, coiling around your neck, submitting itself to the shape of you. The Commander tightened the grip until the metal clung to you like a second skin. 

He stood, lifting you with that same invisible force by your collar to meet him. In a fluid motion, his cloak was swept from his body. He pulled it around you, leaving it open enough to frame your chest. With your cuffs drawing your wrists together, your tits bloomed between your arms. They rose and fell as you parried a panic attack. Your lungs obeyed you. The back of his hand stroked an exposed nipple as he brought the garment together the rest of the way. A tiny sound escaped you, and you hoped he hadn't mistaken it for pleasure. 

There were footsteps. “Come,” he beckoned the cook to set down the towels. Before she could get away, he spoke again. “Pour one cup for me.” Her hands jerked in the effort to do as he asked as efficiently as possible. Umber liquid trickled into the cup. He dismissed her to stand against the wall. 

His attention never left you as he brought the onyx vessel between you. “Drink,” he told you, pressing the rim against your bottom lip. An ominous request from a masked man whose inflicted wounds on your person were still mending. “If you don't open, I'll take it that you're refusing the second and last offer from me. Neither of us want that. Neither does she,” he added. “Drink.”

Suppressing a sob, you parted your still split lips and let the heat sting in your wounds. Sip by sip, you drained a portion of the cup. You didn't stop until he pulled it away. “Thank me,” he whispered. 

You had little fight left in you after the threat made against someone else. “Thank you,” you blurted out, rubbing sore lips together. His index finger caught a stray drop running down your chin, returning it to your mouth. “Thank you,” you repeated, licking away the morsel of tea. Part of you meant it, thirstier than you had ever felt. 

“I can give you more,” he purred. “Do you want that?” 

You nodded. “Yes, sir. Please, Commander.” Relaxing, you allowed him to tip back your chin as he drained the cup into your mouth. Each swallow was exquisite. If it was drugged, you welcomed it.

The service scraped across the grand table with a sweep of his arm. He pulled you to him, lifting you by your upper thighs before setting you down in the empty space. His cloak spared you from the cold and the sharp edge. It fell open, starlight dripping onto your skin from above. Experimenting, he cupped one breast in hand, rolling over the bud with his thumb. He took his time. Your cuffs popped open, and he set them nearby.

“Open your legs for me.” The speaker cracked by your ear, coating you in goosebumps as you slackened your hips. “Touch yourself. Slowly,” he added, pulling up a chair, ready to watch you like he had before. No, it felt differently. Before, pain was all he wanted from you. The repeat situation was still a sick lesson, but one you could stomach a bit easier. You wanted to tell the sniffling cook in your peripheral vision that you'd both make it through the day. Going to work, you aimed to make that happen. 

Things went predictably at first. Your fingertips warmed, dipped into your core. It was slow like he asked. You turned up the sex, needing to impress. You worried at your lower lip with your teeth, staring into eyes that weren't there. Hips lifted from the table, plunging your fingers deeply. Plastic moans slipped through your teeth. With closed eyes and enough concentration, your consciousness found a kinder place. 

You were breathing in the thick, pungent air. It was industry, both outside your abandoned warehouse and within. Even through a respirator, the stench of melted plastic and aerosol was too much. Still, it was your home. Safety. The First Order would never expect to find you there, squatting. With practiced sweeps of your arms, your moniker was displayed proudly on your latest piece. Another one finished. Coruscant would be seeing more of The Axiom very soon. From your forehead, you wiped away the grime and tossed the empty can to the floor. Your head snapped in the direction of the suddenly still aerosol container. There he was. Cabor, tattered coat and unkempt hair as always. He pulled measly portions of the day's rations from his pockets, offering them. 

“You never stop going after this guy, do you?” he asked, distracted by the recently finished piece. “Maybe you should ease up a bit.”

Surprised he'd say such a thing, you scoffed. “You hate it,” you replied, swiping the nutrient bar from his hand. “Look at how seriously he takes himself. No one even knows what he looks like. He's a fucking joke.”

“I bet you'd love to find out, as obsessed with him as you are. Is it the mask? Should I start wearing one?” He laughed between bites, grabbing a face mask in arm's reach to mimic the tyrant's fashion choice.

“Don't joke. This... thing, Kylo Ren. It's a monster. Sure, he's not the top dog. That's Snoke. But he's their symbol, and symbols of fascists need to be shamed and mocked. Everything about him can't be true. We have to show the galaxy, to prove it!” You had more to say, which was nothing new to Cabor. He stilled your heightening fury with a kiss. Kylo Ren was the furthest thing from your mind. Cabor's hands were hot from being in his pockets, and it made them all the more welcome when one slipped under your belt. Your smile broke the kiss, already excited. Fingers found your own heat, working your pussy with skill and practice. Pressure built inside of you as you fumbled with his torn pants. 

There was a familiar hum in your skull that you had been ignoring throughout the encounter, but you pressed on, grinding up onto your lover's hand. A tremor shook the warehouse, but you ignored it. Then another. Your mind splintered as something foreign cleaved through your fantasy. An invader. The room went cold. Cabor's hand vanished, leaving only the wraith. Had it climbed out of your painting somehow, through the stripes of angry text that should have held it back like prison bars? It was an epicenter of destruction and rage, smashing through your supplies and pieces with fists that had learned to embrace wrath long ago. Chunks of wood and canvas fell to the hard floor, shattering like glass. 

The anomaly was enough to rip you from your daydreams. The Commander was standing then, losing his self control. His grip went straight for your throat. Onyx tea cups were hurling through the conference room, smashing into walls and windows. The pot trembled under his telepathy, exploding. Some shrapnel snagged your skin. A guttural scream forced its way through the mask as he vented frustration. Choking the life out of you wasn't enough, apparently. Reality was dimming, but you focused on the gentle sobs of the cook. She was still standing dutifully by the doorway. Gasping, you regretted escaping from the trauma. Kylo Ren had been inside of your mind before you had even felt it.

“A fucking joke?” The repetition of your own words held a world of contempt. He constricted more. “Do I still seem like one to you now? As I crush you?”

Clawing at his hand, you tried to speak, to comply. Your brain stayed conscious against the pangs that followed when the connection was broken. The act was akin to ripping out an arrow head with brute force. You managed to shake your head 'no' despite it. Saucers and the creamer met their end with an interior window. He squeezed tighter when your body jerked. How much damage could the collar take before it cracked and stabbed into your jugular? You mouthed your apologies, fading under his unnatural strength. His grip loosened enough to allow you a few gulps of oxygen. 

“Please,” you began. “I'm just scared!” 

“Not enough, I've seen.” He planted a firm slap on both thighs, pushing them apart. Your cry echoed throughout the hollow chamber when another impacted your vulva. Then another. With one hand around your neck, he continued punishing your sex, spanking your clit until you began to lose your voice. The assault ceased. The Commander held you there, watching your body spasm from the overstimulation. “You need someone else to make you cum, is that it?” You shook your head, eyes closed. “Yes, you do,” he corrected, cupping you between the thighs, gathering your heat in his palm. One of his fingers entered you with little warning, buried to the knuckle. He experimented a moment, giving and taking inches before adding another. 

Swollen and reluctantly aroused, you could feel every crease and wrinkle on his glove as it ground against you. He pumped viciously, drawing a groan from you. It only made him add vigor to the act. On the edges of your attention, you could feel his hard on pressing against your leg. Your walls squeezed at the notion. Wet fingers were forced into your mouth, reaching to the back of your tongue. You gagged when he removed them. Before you could stop coughing, his focus was back on your pussy, reaching into you with coiling digits. His technique was more or less a punch straight for your cervix, bruising a ring around your lips with his knuckles. 

“You see this?” he questioned, breathing laboriously behind his facade. He twisted your viewpoint from him to the cook. “Ask her to help you again.”

Hoping that she wouldn't be stupid enough to actually do it, you obeyed. “H-help me,” you whimpered, knowing where the moment was going. Predictably, she just cried harder and nothing else.

“No?” It sounded like he clicked his tongue, but it was difficult to tell. Still pumping at your cunt, he continued. “This is what will happen if you try to get away, to try and do anything. Nothing. No one will help you here. I'm all you have.” Your mouth was stuffed with sticky fingers once more. 

“You will appreciate me.” A tug was felt in your mind, and it wanted you to believe the words. The tickle there went away. Pressure building in your sex was a distraction, however unwanted. He had been rough, clumsy even, but he had been hitting all of your favorite spots with thick fingers. You rose and fell to meet him. You hated yourself for it, but you needed to cum all over them, audience or no. “Yes, yes, like this,” he exclaimed, grinding a knuckle against your clit. The crest of your pleasure approached, your body tensing around him. 

Instead of a climax, a wave of cold hit your vulva as he removed himself from you entirely. By the throat, he pushed you to the floor. Grimacing, you pulled up a forearm to look at it. Onyx shards of glass peppered your flesh. You could feel it grinding into your knees. 

“We're done here. Follow me when you can,” he barked at you, crunching bits of pulverized tea service under his boots. He cleaned off his sopping glove with one of the towels before throwing it at you. “And you. Clean this up or find someone else to do it. This too,” he told the cook, shoving his soiled cloak into her arms. She wasted no time in skittering down the hall to the elevator. 

Swallowing down horror as a lump in your throat, you stood. You picked the larger shards out of your knees and elbows, took a breath, and padded down the hall to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Kylo, your aftercare is so terrible. Think he'll ever learn?
> 
> Please leave a comment if you'd like to read more! Check me out on tumblr. [My main blog](https://harl3quinsmil3.tumblr.com) and [my slutty side blog!](https://d00biusc0nsent.tumblr.com)


	3. Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You struggle with life in captivity.

3.

With knitted brow and cradled arms, you followed the sound of boots. His long strides impacting the floor made a sound you'd never forget. The halls were filled with little else, save for the little noises you made. Your heart pounded in time. 

Afraid to look up, you kept your unblinking eyes on the black tile. He stopped. So did you, once you were close. In one motion, his right glove was off. You dared to watch him unlock the door before you. His hand flattened onto a screen at the side of the door. The scanner lit up between his fingers, revealing shockingly youthful skin. “After you,” he said, stepping to the side to let you pass. A shiver went down your spine at the thought of him behind you. But you obliged. 

Detecting a visitor's presence, sconce lights awoke until they reached a dim, liminal glow. It wasn't enough to make out much of the room, but it was clear that it was used as some sort of office. There was a red lined silhouette of a grand, arcing desk. Welcoming, it was not.

You tensed, feeling a hand wrapping around the back of your neck. It didn't crush, but guided. “You could have had your own space. Like this,” he mentioned, twisting you around to look before pushing you along. “Well. You will have a room at least.” As he said the words, another door opened in the paneling. No key or print was used, just his unnatural telekinesis and the wave of a hand. After witnessing an entire tea service be obliterated with only a thought, your doubts about the myth of Kylo Ren were waning. You both stepped inside.

The familiar odor of adhesives and welding fumes filled up your chest. Someone had been altering the room recently. As the interior took shape, you found it curious that it was a repurposed, large corridor. Clerestory windows ran along the left. They were too far up to look out comfortably. In beams of starlight, you could make out a blanket on the far side of the room. Your captor walked you further in. You gasped, catching sight of two figures in front of you. Realizing it was a reflection, that the far wall was a mirror, you sighed. 

The Commander let you go, allowing you to inspect the room as he willed a few sconces to produce light. You toed the blanket, sinking into the realization that it was the entirety of your bed. It was still a cell, but a warmer one, and with a sliver of the galaxy in view. 

“Kneel,” he threw out casually, hands clasped behind his back. You took a moment too long looking at your hands and knees, glass still lodged in your skin. He repeated himself, sharply, adding “and on all fours.” Wincing, you obeyed. Shards sank deep under your body weight. Blood seeped from each micro injury. 

“You'll rarely leave this room. I will be everyone you know. You will answer questions for me and do as I say. Don't ask me for anything. You have what you need.” He gestured vaguely at what had to be a new sliding door, opposite the reflective wall. Beyond was a toilet and what was almost a proper shower. “Your sonic that you said would be so much easier. So right. Use it when you like.” Your teeth gnashed, grinding risky words to dust before they hit your lips. “Say thank you,” the bastard had the nerve to add. 

“Thank you.” The words were bile rising. 

“Commander,” he reminded. 

“Commander,” you spat. 

He went down on one knee, approaching your level. Even with his body bent, his frame eclipsed yours. If he had eyes, they were burning through you. “Such hatred. And all for me. Or is it?” He raised and clenched his fist, contorting your body to match its shape. Stomach hovering above the floor, your hands and feet stretched to meet at the small of your back. Your breath bounced off of his mask, warming the front of your face as you choked down a scream. “You know the agony it is to resist. Let me in,” he said, pressing the tips of his fingers into your temple. 

“I don't know anything else,” you pleaded, gravity pulling fluids from your face.

“This isn't an interrogation,” he toyed. His willpower sliced through your own, delving deep. “You want to kill me. As you should.” He studied the vague flashes of your past and present. “But not as badly as you want to fuck me. That's a bit sick.”

“You disgust me!” Your body blushed.

“Not a contradiction,” he reminded. “Being treated like this is less repellent to you? More attractive than his lazy thrusts and ugly noises? You were so disappointed. Enough to cheat.”

“I thought he left me! He'd been gone so long!” Your head was splitting against the effort. Pushing him back was like trying to block and overpower the sharp edge of a knife with bare hands. 

“Would you have resisted temptation if Cabor had been in the warehouse above you? Would you have killed the intruder then? Would he have killed you? What ifs are an addictive luxury. No more regret, little no one. Passion is truth. Turning it away is living a lie.” He shuddered in what seemed to be pleasure, making a mockery of your suffering. Could he feel your memories and not just view them? 

“Get the fuck out!” you shrieked, voice box shredding as you repeated it over and over. 

Releasing you, he stood, circling. He stroked your hair almost affectionately as he did so. “You don't really regret your infidelity. Do you? Admit it.” Fingertips continued to glide across your skin as he spoke to you in near whispers. One strayed close to the inside of your thigh. 

“I never wanted to hurt him,” you said more to yourself than your captor. 

“You look so sore,” he observed, widening the gap between your legs. He stepped into the blank space, gripping your ankles. You wondered if the glass lodged in your lower shins was puncturing his bare hand. You hoped so, especially when he thrust against you. “Admit it,” he continued, squeezing and pressing harder. “You'd trade every last piece you've stolen for a chance to be fucked like that again. Tell me,” he urged, grinding subtly against your swollen sex. 

Words weren't an option. There was only inhaling and exhaling. It took all of the mental capability you had left to focus on steadying your breathing. You wondered if that would be your consistent state of life from then on. 

“Say it,” he ordered one last time. His soft uniform felt like it shared the porous, rough surface of steel wool. It scraped your vulva, shielding you from the Commander's cock as it forced your labia apart. “Say it!” You were slick. So much so that you feared he'd manage to penetrate you through the fabric of his pants. You could feel them dampening as he played with you. 

You couldn't.

Then, a flash of agony ripped through your arms and legs. Darkness.

* * *

Something felt irritating. Enough to rouse you. It was cold and metallic, and whatever it was, you were clearly in its way. Gears were turning in some sort of mechanical nuisance, you could hear. Your brain went to work at deciphering just where exactly you were. You were laying on the floor in a fetal position. Why were you on the floor when you had a perfectly good bed in the warehouse? Why was it so quiet? Coruscant was never still. The smell of construction, of industry, was definitely there. 

The nuisance beeped. It beeped at you some more, bumping at your arm with more vigor than ever. 

Why would you own a cleaning droid? A memory check proved that you did not, in fact, ever own a cleaning droid as an adult. You did not own a cleaning droid. The phrase repeated until it clicked. Adrenaline gushed through your body. Your eyes snapped open. You scrambled to recognize your surroundings. Unfortunately, you knew where you were. 

Panicking, your hand shot between your legs, feeling around for the worst kind of evidence. To your relief, nothing further had been done to you after you lost consciousness. You almost couldn't believe that, then understanding the kind of creature Kylo Ren truly was. 

You watched the tiny droid. Hopelessness threatened to crush you as much as the headache you'd acquired. It went about cleaning your blood from the floor where your body had been. It chirped merrily as steam poured from its vents. You stood on wobbly legs, giving it the room it needed to work. The droid ran into some difficulty, trying to suck up a chunk of something too big for its mouth. You went to it, retrieving an oddly shaped mass of obsidian glass, ignoring the fresh onslaught of beeping. Turning it over every which way, you tried to understand its shape. It reminded you that you should have woken to dozens of throbbing stab wounds. Inspecting your body, you realized that the evidence was there, but the shards were missing. Or were they? Your focus went back to the mystery chunk. Positioned the right way, your fingers filled the cavities. It would have been a perfect fit inside of your closed fist, had your hand been larger. Your black out made sense. He had ripped every shard, every particle, of glass from your flesh in a single move. You felt sick knowing that he could melt glass with raw power.

Dropping the impossible chunk, your stomach lurched. Stepping over the droid and into the alcove that held the toilet, you emptied your stomach of what little it held. Bile and tea swirled below you as you held onto the rim, letting it all go. Just by throwing up, your spirits felt lighter. You turned on the sonic, stepping into it. The vibrations were welcome as the dried blood and sweat fell from your skin and hair. It only did so much. Not even a waterfall could wash away your horrors.

You reached for your robe as you exited the station. When your hand came back empty, you used it to smack yourself in the forehead. Things had changed. There were no towels. No clothes. Certainly, there was no bed to plop onto afterwards and cruise your holo feed for inspiration. 

Numbness. You had been there before. A human mind could only take so much before it cut itself off from you at the root. 

But you were determined not to whither.

The mirror. Heel to toe, you edged over to it. A pit formed in your stomach as you considered it, filling with dread. Still, you were drawn into it, that singularity. Was it breathing in time with you? You stopped to check, but all was quiet. Its grip on you was awkward, like unwanted eye contact that went on far too long. 

Something was behind it. It wasn't the Commander. No, his darkness was unique, like it had taken on its own character. Like it had its own existence outside of you. Whatever was behind the mirror wall, it was pure intention and little else. You could feel it when your palm connected with the surface. Then it seemed familiar. And you were terrified. 

A shuttering sound came from behind you, and you gasped. The influence had ceased. On the floor by the door was a saucer. More tea. At least there was something bread-like sitting next to the cup. Whoever had delivered it was nowhere to be seen. Your stomach groaned, but you needed to know how it got there first. That was when you realized the droid was gone. Back down on hands and knees, you inspected the wall. You could see the wider gap around a particular tile, but there was no way to get a grip to lift it. At least you knew there was a hole in the room. 

It occurred to you then to check the entrance, just to be sure you weren't making assumptions. The door was static, with no sign of a control panel. You checked the windows a bit more closely as well. Even on tip toes, you couldn't see anything but night sky. There was a bowl on the sill, but you couldn't reach it. Not even the puny vine that curved over its lip. 

“At least one of us can see out,” you said to the vine. You sighed, quite aware that you had just started speaking to a house plant. Your house plant. “Be happy I can't eat you. Yet. You're lucky I don't have my custom boots.” The house plant did not respond.

Dragging your blanket from the ominous mirror, you folded it into some semblance of a cushion. Minding your wounds, you sat down next to your breakfast, taking the saucer into your lap. You resisted the urge to stuff and pour everything down your throat, choosing to savor it instead. Determined to feel human, you sipped at your cup and nibbled your sweet bread, basking in that thin bar of starlight.

 

* * *

Nudity meant nothing to you by the end of your first week. Or had it been two? Regardless, you had to stay strong despite your captivity. Push ups were a chore on the hard flooring, with or without the meager blanket to soften it. The threat of being watched through the mirror was in the back of your mind. What vision of you could that monster take by then? The fierce darkness you had felt the first day had become a wisp of concern. Filling the hours was the true fear each time your eyes opened.

Exhausted, you laid on your back, observing the never changing, outside world. The little plant had grown a bit, but it was still pathetic. You waved at it. Unless the droid could climb walls, there was no way it was being taken care of. Not that you would have shared your daily water rations with it. Not even the tea. Your lips curled in disgust at the thought of more tea. Then again, maybe you could spare some of it. 

Speaking of the droid, you wondered where it was. The tile by the door hadn't opened in a while. You had been saying hello to it, too. That felt moderately less insane. 

Of course, there weren't too many messes you could have really gotten yourself into to summon it. None you were willing to try, anyway. Inciting the attention of the beast was not at all what you wanted. Not anymore at that point. That had changed after meeting it. You wondered if the chaos you had sown had ever meant anything. If depriving the machine of just a bit of its money had done any good. Being a prisoner of a cold war felt like an empty end to have. What could the First Order have done that the Empire had not? You doubted your purpose. 

Stop it, you told yourself. If even one of your warnings had reached the right ears, it had been worth it. Even if the Resistance hadn't known your real name, only Cabor's. At least his name might have meant something. At least you'd have existed on the dark side of a memory. 

Had anyone noticed you were gone? That your holo feed had stopped generating content? Had the First Order been able to crack all of Cabor's encryptions? He had been your keeper of keys. Your digital knight. But he was gone. Your queendom had most likely been ransacked and ravaged like your physical body. 

Where were you? All that you knew of the world outside of the window was that it was perpetual night. You had to have been in deep space. Rumors placed the rising military force somewhere in the unknown regions. Maybe you were there. Somewhere. Floating in the void on a ship. 

The big question was: why had a First Order Commander kept you so tightly locked away in his private chambers? He hadn't touched you in days, at least. Watched you, probably. 

Half of your thoughts had gone by before you realized that you were pacing around the room. Your foot knocked over the latest, empty cup. The saucer danced, clacking. As it settled, your frustrations hadn't. 

Looking down, you knew you had made a huge mistake. The saucer was in a thousand pieces, scattered across the cell. Your eyes darted between the mirror and the door. Your hand cupped your mouth as you held a breath. Something had possessed you to beam the plate into the mirror. You wondered if the Commander would do the same to you when he came through the door. Scared to breathe, you shrank away from the entrance. Like a few feet made a difference. 

You should have been afraid of the mirror. That familiar pressure tingled around your neck. Your hands went to your caving windpipe to pry away invisible fingers. They pulled you across the room, toes skinning from the friction with the floor, smack into the cold, reflective surface. Stars flashed. What little air you had was knocked from you. Consciousness, nearly. You struggled to pry yourself away from the mirror. Your vision doubled and blurred as you did your best to see your assailant behind the reflection. Frantic slapping slowed into what looked like a polite request to stop choking the life from you. 

He dropped you. Then came the coughing and the gulping of air. As you settled down, the little droid barged in. It swept and sucked up the bits of shattered saucer, ignoring you entirely. 

“This isn't at all normal, you know,” you told it, tossing a chunk at it as it worked. It squawked at your nerve, sucking up that particular chunk particularly hard. A shadow crossed your face. “Or it is. Please tell me I'm the only one locked away as an officer's pet.” Its red light blossomed as its optics met your own. Cautious, it approached you, as if fearing for its own safety. For a moment, you thought plain words were about to spout from its speaker box. Instead, it flattened itself to the floor and steamed away the drops of blood that had fallen from your forehead. “I thought we were having a moment!” you called after it. Its flap in the wall slammed shut. 

You swallowed, feeling the tremors of heavy steps moving towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me so far! Hopefully this one didn't get boring. Come say hi to me on my main tumblr: harl3quinsmil3, or my side blog that is revolving around this fic at the time of posting: d00biusc0nsent
> 
>  
> 
> May the force choking be with you,
> 
> D00bz


	4. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander gives you a job to do.

4.

 

Holding your breath, you listened to the footsteps on the other side of the wall. They stopped. You heard the droid let out a confused shriek, like it had narrowly avoided getting crushed under a boot. You braced yourself for the worst, chastising yourself for causing a scene. The door glided open. No one came through. 

“Come,” he demanded, out of sight. It had been a while since you had heard the inorganic, monotone voice of the Commander. He hadn't burst into your room to beat you around, and that surprised you. More than that, it frightened you. You had yearned to witness the door open, freedom waiting. It felt like a trap. “You'd rather stay?” The door began to shut.

“Wait!” you called, struggling to stand on secure feet. Your brain was still rattled from impacting the front of your skull. Trying not to be mousy, you straightened your shoulders and lifted your chin. You passed the threshold, arms stiff at your side. The door slid shut behind you.

For the first time, you could see Kylo Ren's office with clarity. A triple-tiered chandelier hung from the ceiling. It cast geometric shadows over the (predictably) black interior. There were overstuffed arm chairs across from his massive desk, even a few stylistically similar couches along the sides. The thought of someone sinking into one of them was laughable. You wondered if anyone had ever felt relaxed in that office. The unworn look of the cushions suggested that, no, they hadn't. 

He ignored you, opening a box and sorting its contents. You swallowed, seeing things that could only be meant for you, unless a dramatic role reversal was about to happen. “You seem bored,” he said. 

Your forehead pulsed. “Yes. Commander.”

“You remembered. Good. Normally, I'd ask you to kneel.” You scoffed internally at the idea of something normal. “In fact, I demand it. Now, however, I'd like for you to have a seat on a sofa.” You obeyed, measuring your movements carefully. The leather felt as cold as it had looked. It was bizarre to sit on actual furniture, illegal even. “I have gifts for you,” he purred, crouching down to one knee before you. Such an innocent, well meaning sentence had never horrified you more. 

“Oh?” you managed through a cautious smile. 

He reached up, stroking away a stream of crimson from your split forehead. Pressing too hard, he added, “Say thank you. Always.”

“Th-thank you, Commander. Thank you so much for thinking of me.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart fluttered, despite your disgust. Maybe because of it. You bit down on the inside of your cheek to punish your own body. 

He held your left leg in one hand and the most preposterous boots you had ever seen in the other. With care, he positioned your foot into one of them, then the other. Next came the process of tying them up all the way. You focused on his hands, deftly sewing the satin lace up the inside of one leg, listening to each other breathe. Your abdomen clenched. His knuckles grazed your exposed lips as he tied a bow in completion at the top of your thigh. He repeated the process with your other leg, taking care to tie them as tight as a tourniquet. A noise escaped you when his knuckles hit your hot spot again. He lingered a bit longer than the previous time, running them across your clit as he stood up, admiring his work. 

“Stand,” he told you, taking a step back, hands fidgeting at his sides.

You did, for a moment. Success was fleeting, however, as you toppled forward, ankles giving out under the obtuse angle at which they were bent. In arms that were almost welcoming, he caught you. He held you against him longer than you anticipated. His body heat was invigorating, as was the softness of his uniform. Despite the hatred you kept for him, you admitted to yourself that no one had held you in a long time. The embrace was intoxicating. Tears swelled. Tattered edges of his cloak tickled your nose as you breathed him in. Rich spices and sharp citrus. Underneath was the heady odor of leather. When he pushed you back a respectable distance, you searched his mask for an expression like a fool. Fists that had balled into his tunic fell to your side as he steadied you. 

Where your typical pair of boots had been functional and often called 'ugly', this one sat at the spectrum's opposite end. Walking, comfort: those things weren't discussed when the designer had finalized them. Ankles tensed, keeping balance. A ballerina would have felt at home. You hoped your toes would hold out as he considered you, smashed into the cap of the shoe. 

He dropped down, forearms on knees. You pulled your arms away, reacting, heart thudding at any sudden movements he made. His hands admired your legs, thigh to toe. The leather gloves made a curious noise, sliding down the transparent material. They were made of some type of plastic, but you would have described them differently. Like clear resin had been poured down your skin and never allowed to dry. Seamless, save for where they met the sole and the laces. While the heels were more of an icicle than utilitarian, the platforms more than made up for it. Inside, nebulous liquid swirled, purples and pinks and blues and black, metallic. All encased in too many inches of plastic glass. 

“Your legs,” he began, rising as he did so. “They're shaking. Already. Are they painful?”

“I can take it, Commander,” you insisted. Discomfort had you focused on getting through the day as quickly as possible. He just stood there. Was he smiling at your pandering word choice under that hood? Did he ever?

“There's more.” He gestured towards an article of clothing. On quivering legs, you inched over to the couch where it sat. You bent down to retrieve it, going no further than you had to. 

“A shirt? No, a dress,” you realized, feeling the scaly texture of thick sequins under your hands. “It's beautiful. Thank you, Commander.” You went to put it on, but he stopped you, taking the dress. It looked like a handkerchief in his grasp. He stepped closer, bringing it over your head and guiding your arms through. 

Individual sequins rattled softly as he shifted the dress until it hung from the right places. You looked down, noting that the plunging neckline took its namesake seriously. It stopped well below your navel. The opening was wide. So wide that you questioned if he had put a backless dress on your body backwards. You reached up to pull the garment over exposed nipples. He slapped your hands away before returning to give one a solid pinch. You yelped, bracing for the sensation as he repeated the act with the other until it swelled. Each tug pulled a thread of pleasure from your torso. It wasn't until the expected sting of a slap brought you back to reality that you noticed your eyes had been shut. 

“You're enjoying this,” he noted, planting flattened fingers on your other breast with a slap. “Too much.” He waited a moment before continuing the barrage. “Respond.” Another.

Tripping over words, you managed, “Yes! Commander! I do enjoy it. Too much. Thank you.” Part of you agreed with whatever twisted script of his you were following. Eyes shut again, you focused on each breath between strikes. You grimaced and fought tears. Soon, you were sniffling anyway. “Please,” you pleaded.

“Please?” He gave your right nipple a nasty clockwise turn. You screamed. “Please what?”

“Please stop,” you cried. Each impact felt like a burning whip. 

“Do you think I will? If you beg?” he toyed. 

“No,” you decided, posture failing under the torment. “Commander.”

“I could abuse another part of you. Where do you think I'd choose next?” He leaned in to ask. The audio of his mask, so close beside you, sent out ripples of goosebumps. 

“I don't know, Commander,” you said, wincing as he twisted the other one. With his free hand, he traced the beveled edge of your collar before hugging it around your throat and pulling you closer. “Somewhere painful.”

“A few evenings with me and you understand me so well.” The grip around your neck squeezed more tightly, almost fondly. Still turning your nipple in cruel fingers, he said, “If you're fearless today, you might enjoy your punishment for the tea cup.”

“This isn't-”

He interrupted you with a yank. “This isn't your punishment. This is me saying hello. Now, come with me. I have a job for you.” Your nipple snapped back into place as he left you for the door, a silent scream barely contained as the blood rushed into the flesh he had been pinching for so long. “The morning courier brought up your gifts, but not all of them. I need you to descend my tower and head to a specific docking bay. Bay C04. A worker will bring them to you. Don't go poking around. Come straight back to me. All clear?”

“Yes, sir,” you replied in haste, struggling to keep up as he stalked down the hall. Your cheeks burned in embarrassment from the sound you made alone. Rather than the sound of sexual power you imagined the platforms should give off on impact, they clomped along like the hooves of a drunken labor animal.

To your surprise, he held the elevator open for you. As the two of you stood in the quiet, you examined the dress more closely. Instead of uniform sequins, they were all slightly misshapen. Each one reflected multiple colors in the light, not unlike the bizarre liquid in the platforms of the fetish boots. 

“Jet,” he told you, noting your curiosity. “From this planet.”  
“Where are we?” you asked. 

He ignored you for the rest of the descent, going so far as to open up his data pad and scroll through his messages. You rolled your eyes.

“This is your stop,” he told you, stepping to the side to let you pass. Saying nothing else, he hit the button to close the door and was gone. 

There you stood, half naked and shaken in an open space. Your first thought was to pull the garment over your exposed chest. That was a mistake. Even the smooth friction of the jet beads was like pumice against the raw skin of your breasts. Hissing, you opted for the shame of open air instead. A trio of stormtroopers walked by, quiet. They didn't seem shocked to see you, and you found that disturbing. At least you weren't being catcalled or laughed at. 

It sickened you to think it, but Kylo Ren had been correct. You were glad to have his collar around your throat in that moment. No one wanted to go near you. 

You kept your head high as you searched for clues as to where you were. There were 'C's all over the place. Language options in text gave no clues as to which planet you were on. It was a First Order base of some kind, featuring only languages prevalent in the sleeping Empire. Though the military beast allegedly was put down, you knew better. Sith artifacts had been trading hands at a high rate, including yours. Long ago, you would have dismissed claims made by superstitious maniacs. They whispered of titanic war machines twice the size of the Death Star in the void of uncharted space. They claimed that relics were speaking to them. After witnessing the effects of such objects first hand, you started to believe their tales of doom. You wondered if the base in question orbited the snowy planet. You hadn't seen anything of the like through your window.

Speaking of windows, you caught a sliver of night sky off in the distance. Surely, a docking bay would be near it. You picked up the pace, taking care not to twist an ankle. People were more and more frequent. Most of them stared, caught off guard with breakfast in hand, just trying to get to work. 

Your heart leaped into your chest at the sound of a pilot firing up their freighter. The engine's roar filled the bridge that the signage had led you to. As you stepped under its arched window, the blizzard outside howled. Biting your lip, you stopped to press your aching chest to the icy glass. It took the air from your lungs, but the relief made your head spin. Infinite dark stared back at you with its offer of forever freedom from pain, if you could get to it. Only death felt possible out there, for you, someone who had never learned to have wings. You thought of all the chances you had had to try. 

If you had asked the pilot to save you, would they have?

No.

In the distance was a warm light. It was faint, but the red heat poured into the nothing like cooling lava. Was there a city sized fire? Everyone seemed far more concerned with gawking at you than the volcanic hellscape. Urgency made way for general curiosity. 

Cold helped to quiet the pulsing ache, but it worsened in your calves. You were keenly aware of each bone in your feet. The pain reminded you to keep going. That you had to. 

“Excuse me?” you addressed a dockman. “I'm looking for... a delivery.”

He was polite enough, but as awkward as you would expect. No one wanted to speak to you. You didn't blame them, considering you looked like a problem. Strolling around the docks in thigh high boots, tits out, on Coruscant would have gotten you plenty of admirers. But not on a First Order base. At least, not with a black band around your neck. 

“The Commander sent me to fetch a box,” you announced yourself to the person handling new freight. Informing them on which commander had been as pointless as you had assumed. They left and came back with a stack of them. You noticed you had been wringing your hands throughout the ordeal and forced them to part to accept your 'gifts'. “Okay,” you began. “I can carry these. No problem.” Carrying all of it was going to be a huge problem. 

In amazement, you watched the worker bring over the packages, ignoring your open arms in favor of the ground at your feet. You bent down, curious how your shoes would react at the knees. To your surprise, they gave way for your joints with no resistance. You centered yourself above the needles of your heels. Stray strands of jet beads from the sleeves clacked softly against the ground as you scooped the boxes into your arms. The air was frigid between your legs. With gritted teeth, you rose with your thighs. You thanked them out of habit, cursing under your breath, and left. 

Not once, but two times, you had to catch yourself from twisting an ankle. The bridge had seemed long before, but the return trip was endless. Freedom tasted like dirty plastic. At least you thought so as you held the top box in place with your lips. A filthy mouth was nothing compared to the discomfort of your chest. Walking was getting more and more trying. Your legs were barely able to function with all of the muscles you had been tearing. In the middle of the bridge, you stopped to catch your breath and stretch your body. Wishing you had more time, you pulled at the loops of the laces in thought. Anything would be worth sitting down and getting those boots off. It had felt like miles. 

A cold sweat spread across your body. There was a familiar urge to empty your stomach. It was strange. You normally only threw up after breakfast. You hadn't had a thing to eat so far that day. Snow flakes blurred as your willpower overcame your nausea. 

Maybe speaking to a regular person for the first time in ages had affected your nerves more than you cared to admit. 

Something bounced off of one of your platforms. You ignored it at first, thinking someone had tossed trash at you from a passing fork lift. It bounced a second time, bleeping at you. It was the rude little droid, unless all of the cleaner bots shared its personality. 

“Oh, it's you,” you sighed, nudging it back. “Giving you a good show today?” 

It chittered at you, spinning its round body in circles. Definitely Kylo Ren's cleaner droid. 

“Why am I standing here? I needed a break, these heels aren't just an eyesore. Oh, well, I'm glad you think they're pretty.” Bending down, you hugged the packages against your chest, listening to the droid squawk at you some more. You stopped. “What do you mean, don't walk back? What am I supposed to do, just take someone's transport?” 

It blooped assuredly, widening its red gaze on just such a transport. 

“You're trying to get me in trouble,” you accused, standing. “More trouble.”

A sour, grinding noise exploded from its speaker, insulted. 

“Okay, okay,” you conceded, turning to confront the driver as you stepped out into the center of the path. He stopped to gawk at the sight in front of him, shouting questions at you. You pointed at your collar with one hand, and shooed the man away with your other. “Leave it running. Please.” He backed away with no argument as you limped over, dropping your burden into the passenger seat. “Coming along, little droid?” you asked it, extending your arms to pick it up. Slots along the bottom of its shell opened. Jets ignited. It lifted itself into the seat, trying not to set it ablaze. You almost smiled, thinking of your own pair of propulsion boots. Your real boots, not the gaudy art installations you were dragging around. 

“Surely you have a name? A serial? What is it?” you asked the AI as you studied the pedals and buttons. It wasn't easy to control the accelerator wearing your boots, but you got the hang of it. “HR-M3-35,” you repeated back to it. “I'll try to think of something catchier. No, I don't care if everyone else calls you 'droid'. I'd really appreciate it if you stopped calling me 'slave'. A bit rough on the morale. Call me (Y/N).”

You took turns carefully, avoiding eye contact where you could and smiling wide where you couldn't. HR-M3-35 chirped. Being chauffeured was probably a rare treat for them. At last, you reached the elevator corridor and parked. Before they could react, you snatched them up and sat them on the ground. You didn't want to know what you'd go through if the Commander found scorch marks on an object you had been charged with. 

As if summoned by your fear, the elevator's hydraulics swished open and out came the wraith itself. Crossing his arms, he watched you struggle to gain your footing as you climbed out of the vehicle. 

“Commander,” you greeted him reverently. It tasted bitter.

“Is that my vacuum?” he questioned, pulling the boxes to him before you could gather them yourself. 

HR-M3-35 absently scraped at miscellaneous gunk on the floor, pretending not to hear. 

“Maybe, sir. They all look the same to me,” you answered, eyes averted. 

“Oh? Hmm. Follow me.”

You obeyed, mustering the strength to catch up before the door sealed behind him. Chewing on your lip, you focused on keeping your legs still. They would shake the chamber otherwise. Your thoughts went to the last time you had been in the service elevator, pushed and dragged. He was much more calm, at least you assumed. It was difficult to tell. His posture was always tense and wide, no matter the situation. His presence soaked up all of the light in a room and reflected none. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked, scanning his hand over the security panel of his office. 

“Yes, Commander. Very.”

“Stand over behind my desk, facing the window,” he told you. “Take the tray.” He pointed at the table by the entrance.

Doing as he asked, you chose your steps carefully. Ice tinked in glasses as you trembled. The chair looked heavenly, built to give even him plenty of room. You didn't dare to sit down. Waiting, you found yourself looking out at the blizzard once more. The chill of the snow would have felt marvelous sliding down the inside of your boots to numb your legs. 

“Open,” he said. Your feet went to widen your stance, but you noticed the utensil in his hand. Blushing bright, your mouth parted instead. If he was amused, he didn't show it, bringing the morsel of food to your lips. As strange as it felt to be fed, there was a thrill to having company. Eating alone had gotten bland. Whatever he gave to you tasted the opposite, savory and tangy. The texture was soft like a cooked vegetable. Something you hadn't had in too long. Your eyes closed for an indeterminate amount of time. “Still with me?” The rumble of his voice startled you out of a trance. 

“Yeah. Yes. Commander. I'm sorry, I-”

“I've never seen someone drift into subspace the way you can. How easy it is for you. The pain was so far away for you. Only the trembling gave you away. Do you want to sit down?”

“Please, Commander, yes,” you begged. 

“Sit then,” he allowed, positioning you on the edge of the desk. Your ankles went limp in relief. “I told you that if you were fearless I'd give you a choice. I'll allow you a couple. I didn't expect you to start using my collar to manipulate others already. Did it give you a rush?”

“Yes,” you admitted, in too much misery to fight his persuasion. 

“Did anyone try to touch you? Laugh at you?” He fed you the last couple of bites and waited for your response. Someone's day hinged on it.

“No, sir. I don't think anyone is willing to do anything to get called into this room, Commander. The rainbow you've made out of my tits was a pretty strong warning. If I'm being honest.” He interrupted your rant by pressing a glass of water to your lips. Tipping it impatiently, he spilled some out of the sides of your mouth. You squeaked when the cold ran down the many colors of your chest, coughing into the glass. He dipped gloved fingers into the cup, taking ice with them. You couldn't remember the last time you had seen such a luxury. He brought the sphere to your lips. It melted against your breath, trickling down your chin. 

“First choice. Do you want your punishment or reward first?” He moved the orb to one of your abused nipples, puffy and throbbing. You whimpered, diaphragm clenching. Patiently, he waited for you to find your voice. He turned it in his hand, switching sides. 

Thinking was a chore in the state you were in. Threats of more discomfort seemed unfair to say the least, after your hike through whatever military base you'd landed yourself on. 

“Commander, I want whichever order that you want.” You slurred your words a bit. 

“I believe that,” he admitted, fondly, rolling the frozen globe. “But you still have to choose, little thief.” You chose punishment, noting the satisfactory growl behind his mask. He trailed it down your stomach, lingering at the nape of the neckline. Water trickled from bead to bead, falling into your lap. His hand followed the drops. In one motion, the sphere disappeared from his fingers. The cold ache branched from your sex, shocking your breath away. He left it to melt down your thighs, other things to do.

The outer casing of the thinnest box was removed and tossed aside. Latches popped open. He allowed you to take the object out of the first package. It was heavier than it appeared. You turned it in your hands, smoothing over the thin shaft of a crop. He shrugged off his cloak while you inspected it. It fell to the floor. 

“May I?” he asked, like you had a say. You placed it in his open hand. “How do you feel about it?”

Cold.

“Frightened,” you chose a more appropriate answer, squeezing your thighs together. 

Feather light, he tapped the business end of his new toy against the welts that peppered your chest. Your nipples hardened under the attention, aching from the process. 

“Lean back. Lift your legs and open them. Wide. Wider. Yes. Good.” He sat. Still exploring, he traced the seam of your thighs where they met your torso. You watched, veins pulsing in anxiety. Threats of pain were somehow worse than pain itself. He flattened the popper at the base of your sex, dragging it up to the bottom of your clit. “Keep them open,” he warned as you writhed, slapping at the mound of flesh above it. You nodded. 

Experimenting, he tested the crop's bounce on your thighs, brimming over the top of the boots. It stung. You yelped. He landed the popper in the same spot over and over, harder and harder. Your skin was turning pink before your eyes. He urged you to lean back further. You obliged, trembling, fatigued by the weight of the shoes and from the effort of keeping the ice from slipping out of you. 

With a heavy 'thwack', the crop landed on the curve of your ass. You stifled the scream that bubbled up behind your teeth. “Thank me,” he said. 

“Thank you!” He hit you again on the other cheek, harder. “Commander!” you added, hoping that was what he wanted. He went back to teasing your pussy with the folded bit of leather, parting your lips. Another rapid succession of taps made your legs spasm. Then again with his hand instead. Each slap sounded wetter than the last against his glove. Watershed drenched the desk.

“Hook your arms under your knees,” he ordered. “Hold yourself up.” You did as he asked, hugging them close. “Now. Going forward, the only orgasms allowed to you are the ones I give you permission to have. Understand?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Good girl.” The monotone filter of his mouth piece couldn't hide the excitement in his voice. Two fingers filled you up with little warning. His eagerness sent a bolt of pleasure through you. He kept them there, applying pressure to your sweet spot and playing with what was left of the frozen ball. A moan slipped out when his thumb rolled over your clit. He kept it up, coercing more sounds from you. “Sit up a moment.” The fingering didn't let up. “Open that one.” He knocked on another box with the crop. 

Doing as he asked, the latches lifted and the lid raised. Inside were more toys. Phallic ones. Some were more abstract than others. Checking it out more closely, you found that there were multiple layers. The top divided in half and capped the ends of the box. The second tier lifted up and back. Moving it revealed the base and even more dildos. 

“Wow,” you said, trying not to squirm against the warmth of his hand. “I can't believe- I've just never been given so many before. Just, wow.” He reminded you of the crop's presence, popping you on a bruise just above your right nipple. “Commander, thank you so much!”

Stroking at the bruise, he said, “Choose one.”

You had to move your neck to look at all of the options. The one you certainly were least likely to pick was the first your eyes went to. It was massive. And as red as the saber he'd drawn on you at the warehouse. You were frozen by the memory of it. Of the size of his body as he had chased you down with it. Of the inhuman voice that had come from behind his mask as he cursed at you. The Jedi Killer's saber had been raised to relieve you too of the burden of living. Then your bomb had gone off around you both. 

“You're alive,” he said to you with pure understanding of the trauma on your face. “Focus on how that feels.” His voice brought you back to the present. The circles he still drew with his thumb kept you there. “Shall I choose for you? Close your eyes and lean back on your elbows.” When you complied, he selected one straight away. You could hear him twirling it in one hand, leather creaking as he considered you. 

It touched your lips, tracing the swells of them. The material was smooth like rubber. Maybe silicon. You held open your mouth, tongue out. Playfully, he clapped the toy onto your tongue, saliva soaring. Your lips tested its girth. It felt as realistic as a cock made of rubber could. Veins and all. A bit too large, but you hoped you could handle it. 

Impatient, he took it away from you with a 'pop', positioning the tip against the opening of your cunt. He coated it in more of your fluids, mimicking what his thumb had done. Pulling your knees back further, you opened yourself up to him. He took the hint, pressing the toy until your body gave in. The impact on your cervix took the air out of your lungs. You whined as he pulled it back out, shaken a bit by the rough treatment. He didn't apologize, but his next few pumps were much less deep. A rhythm took shape between you. Your hips rocked to meet his thrusts. Your walls stretched to endure it, but the friction on your g-spot was enough to make you sob in ecstasy. 

“Don't cum,” he reminded you, speeding up. “I'm going to look at your memories. Show me the last one again. In the ruins. No, no, stay away from shame, none of that matters now. Remember how it felt at the time. You had this look on your face. Yes. Good. Stay there.”

Like photos, still moments from the encounter shuffled behind your eyes. The vulnerability of his intrusions, mental and physical, made you weak. What was the point in resisting his manipulations? More pain? Why was he so curious about the intruder that had out-thieved you? 

__

__

“Start from the beginning. When you're terrified.”

_You held the blaster up and set to kill, barrel unsteady, aimed into the darkness. You hadn't even dared to crack a glow stick. One hand was clasped over your mouth. Straining, you listened to the screams from above the ceiling. You heard no return fire on your guards. Only their bodies thudding against the floor, the walls, everywhere. Breath still held, burning, you planned out an escape once the intruder failed to find the hidden entrance to the staircase. You aimed the weapon in its direction._

_Heavy steps were getting impatient. Furniture, cans, even frames could be heard flying around the upper level of the ruined temple you had inhabited, splintering, exploding. Things went quiet. You thought they had given up._

_Ringing in your ears was all you detected, but the air changed. Something whispered to you from the altar. Its voice scraped the interior of your skull, tickling, enticing. Then 'bam'. A hole punched through the temple ceiling. You hadn't even heard the explosion of the bomb, but it gave you ideas for the next time someone raided your hideout. If there was a next time. Stone crashed through pews and crumbled upon impact. Dim light drained down to your level through the wound, illuminating your hidden paintings and relics, rebel and empire alike._

_The silence that followed the crash was worse. The urgent tickle in your brain vanished. You backed into a corner and sank to a crouch, waiting. He landed in the spotlight, tile cracking under his weight as he stood up to his full height. A piece of debris crunched under your shifting heel._

_Fuck._

_The figure pulled up his hood and drew his weapon with a 'shink'. A metal sword glinted in the candlelight up above. Odd. You had little time to think about the rapier before it became your only thought. With a flick of his forearm, the weapon extended, revealing cords of humming plasma between the segments of metal blade. You were sure he could see the horror on your face as its red light bathed the chamber._

_You fired. Multiple times. He sidestepped the blasts where he could and deflected the rest with casual sweeps of the rapier-turned-whip. Just in time, you rolled away from the corner. The sarcophagus that had been supporting part of your weight was cleaved in half, debris flying. Dust clouded your eyes, but you scrambled to your feet and ran for the nearest cover: the altar near the front of the chamber. You hid behind it, catching your breath, preparing to spring for the staircase. Steady steps stalked towards you. The hum of the whip ceased. Metal scraped metal as the weapon tightened into a rapier. It clattered on the floor as he cast it away._

_Like a frightened animal, you poked your head up over the altar, brushing away cobwebs to see. You kept the business end of your blaster aimed at the murderer. “Okay,” you said, “okay. Neither of us have to die here. Whatever you came here for, look, just take it!” With care, you placed your blaster on the altar, scooting it away. You thought he was staring straight at you, and you considered repeating yourself. The scraping whispers returned. Loudly. Your attention shifted to a box. A small, triangular container crisscrossed in eclectic chains and locks that sat next to your face. You were both captivated by it. Could he hear it too? You backed away, hands raised in defeat. Ignoring you, he ascended the handful of stairs to observe it properly. It scraped the stone slab as it shifted, heavy. At his touch, runes lit up across the sides and the lid, red like the plasma of his whip. He seemed totally uninterested in you, his thoughts miles away. At first._

_“Girl,” he began. “you could see this?”_

_“I'm the one who took it,” you confessed, thinking of Cabor, who had been lucky enough to be long gone when your stash had been raided. The hooded stranger might have killed you, but at least the hunt would end there._

_“Who are you?” he asked, beckoning you to him._

_No one, you wanted to say. An unsuccessful graffiti artist moonlighting as a thief? He would have laughed at your real name. Empires never felt threatened by someone with a name like yours. “I'm The Axiom,” you blurted out, thinking of all the times you had tagged your work in the street with the moniker. It sounded so stupid to you out loud._

_“'Remember Alderaan',” he quoted. He knew your work. You stamped out the inkling of pride you felt. The scope of the project had been enormous. It had taken you all night to paint the northern face of the central court building. It had taken the local government over two weeks to remove it. “An odd point of inspiration for someone who couldn't have.”_

_You were back at the altar, standing in the rays from above. Fear was still a part of the experience, but your hand reached out to the box despite it. It appeared to be the fulcrum of understanding between you._

_“Just take this thing, whatever the fuck it is, and go. Please!”_

_“You don't know? This is what I came for. But maybe not,” he began talking to himself, gathering his thoughts. “Have we met?” he asked, more confused than even you._

_“No, I already told you who I am, what else do you need from me?” Focusing was a feat, between the stranger and the increasingly urgent scratching in your skull. Your temple throbbed, and you grabbed at it in reflex._

_“You can hear it.” He seemed perplexed. “What does it say to you?”_

_“It's not saying anything, it's just noise, a feeling. What the fuck is it?”_

_“You feel it?” he asked, dropping his hood far enough to reveal short, dark hair. His features were masked by shadow. With feline movements, he crawled on top of the altar, closing the gap between the two of you. “So do I,” he whispered, reaching for you. Your hands betrayed you, seeking out his in the darkness. He pulled you closer. There was a belonging in his presence like you'd never witnessed, like the core of your body was magnetically pulled to his._

_You weren't yourself. At least, you hoped that that hadn't really been you with that glaringly oblivious approach to danger. But it was. You were more of an unknown in that moment than the invader. Straddling his lap, you couldn't part through his layers of fabric fast enough. A knife appeared in his hand, and your breath hitched. Instead of your skin and muscle, it shredded through your pants and shirt. He dropped the blade and devoted both arms to tearing the rest away. The terror, the arousal, the curiosity-- all churned inside of you as you sheathed his cock to the hilt. He held your wrists against his chest as you centered yourself, rocking your hips._

_The sour grinding in your mind began to sing like music. Your whole body sang. No hymns had ever been uttered in the ancient, sith temple that could have matched the euphoric moaning that poured from his mouth. He was almost in tears, voice quivering, like it was a release he had been waiting for his entire life. His hands explored you, cupping breasts and clawing hips. Doing anything to feel more of you. Your first climax swept through like a whirlwind, there and gone before you could appreciate it._

“Careful, now,” the Commander chastised, pushing and pulling the sex toy to match the pace in your memory. 

Awareness as a concept returned to your brain, but every atom of your body still believed it was riding the mysterious figure atop the carved stone slab. Sweat and water pooled around your thighs. You used it as lubrication on the desk, slipping yourself forward and back on the dildo. Lungs burned in effort. 

“Please,” you whined, exhausted. Arms extended, you lowered your knees to the chair. Your legs hugged around his thighs as you clasped his shoulders and sank onto his lap, silicon toy still snug inside of you. He seemed shocked as your weight settled around his clothed erection. You ground against the spike of it, wishing he'd free himself. His hips bucked against yours, breath ragged. Ecstatic by the reciprocation, you rubbed against him more. A guttural noise tore through his mask and his body tensed. He held you in place, forbidding more squirming. His grip was painful. Too painful. And it got worse. 

You should have known better than to assume you had been invited in for further intimacy. In a blink, you were flipped over, stomach flat on the desk. He stood behind you, kicking the chair into the window and out of the way. The crop cracked your ass cheek like thunder. You muffled your cry with the desk's surface, brought to tears. It didn't stop. The swings cut through the air, whistling. Skewing the Commander in front of you with the altar boy behind you had been a mistake. 

Something beeped.

“Yes?” you heard him answer after the press of a button. You heard the static of a holo communicator. 

“Commander Ren, sir? Hello?” the fumbling voice sounded familiar.

“Yes?” He was still catching his breath. 

“Sir, hello, I hate to trouble you. Strangest thing. A half naked woman with a droid stole my freight transport earlier. We found it by the elevators later. She had packages meant for you, I was told. Was she-- is she yours?” You peaked at the scared little holographic of the man on the side of the desk. 

“Stole it? Did she have a weapon?”

“No, sir.”

“So you just gave it to her.”

“Uh. Yes, yes I did. I didn't thin-”

“This one?” he interrupted, turning the circular stand to face you. Judging by his silence, your back end looked even worse than it felt. 

“Yes, sir.”

The Commander disconnected, throwing the crop next to you. He just stood there watching your sobs wrack your body. He said nothing. A bare hand cupped the broken skin of your right ass cheek. 

Calmly, he said, “You do not dictate our encounters. Never presume that I want you. Understand?”

You wanted to fight him on his own dictation, but you knew what that would bring you. More suffering. Behind his trousers, you knew there was a nasty mess. A mess that contradicted his last sentence. Proof that he had wanted you, if only for a moment of inaction on his part. He pulled the silicon from your embrace and put it back in the box. Shutting the lid, he pressed another button. The contraption whirred behind its walls. A portable sonic was inside.

“I understand. Thank you, Commander.”

All the words were wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Kylo, why you gotta do us that way? Almost had him. Let yourself feel genuinely wanted you dork ass loser. 
> 
> Can you fucking imagine being Kylo and going out of your way to seem intimidating in front of someone, trying your hardest to seduce them in your own screwed up way... and then you go and jizz in your pants right in front of them? That's a 'space yourself' situation. 
> 
> Anyway, D00bz here, hoping that you enjoyed the latest slutty, slutty (long!) chapter of this garbage. Jeesh, some stuff might happen eventually that doesn't revolve around sex.
> 
>  
> 
> Come say hey on my [main](http://harl3quinsmil3.tumblr.com) tumblr or my [NSFW side](http://d00biusc0nsent.tumblr.com) blog, which is focusing on this fic at the time of posting. You guys have been so awesome with feedback and sharing your own work with me, I'm really flattered.


	5. Oubliette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You discover a bloody secret beneath the snow.

5.

“Do you have to clean now, Hermeez?”

Dreams were your only relief from the monotony of the cell. Even if they had been making you uncomfortable. The droid could really get under your skin with its dedication to daily chores, tapping into every fixture each morning. Still. It was nice hearing another 'voice'. You rubbed at your eyes, dislodging sleep. 

There was no one. Just you, cocooned in your blanket. You savored the comfort while you could. Since your misunderstanding, your morning routine had been anything but. 

Before leaving his chambers, the Commander had been rousing you. He would lace up your boots and knot them over-tight before tying the bow. Not that you would have dared to remove them. No matter how many permanent diamonds were stamped into the inside of your legs from the strings. Then he would have you kneel at his feet by the desk as he fed you, ignoring you for his holo pad in silence. Sometimes he would make you masturbate for him or he'd toy you himself, but he had yet to allow you release. Besides his little accident, he still hadn't been allowing himself satisfaction either, at least not in front of you. 

Wincing, you smoothed your hand over your backside. The welts had given you a constant reminder of his embarrassment. You stood, stretching. In the mirror, you traced the edges of the crop's bruises. They were splashes of all of the shades of the healing process. Staring into your own eyes, you wondered if he was watching you. The idea of it hadn't gotten any less disturbing during your stay. Still, that thought didn't stop the butterflies from dancing in your stomach. 

Tap tap tap.

You jerked away from the glass, heart hammering. Fingers felt around for the wall behind you. Something tickled at your palm and you screamed, turning. Realizing it was the vine from the window sill, your eyes went straight back to the mirror. No more tapping, no footsteps. No nothing. Minutes passed. Finally, the rush dissipated. You leaned your head back and breathed out, absently stroking the vine. Strange that it had grown so much and had never been watered. 

It was... unusually warm for a plant. It pulsed against your skin. 

The cell door slid open and the Commander lingered outside of the frame. There was no way that even he could have made it there in such a short amount of time. Quiet. Then, remembering, you knelt.

“Your heart is pounding,” he began. “Frightened? You were warming up to our mornings, I thought.”

“That depends. Commander, it wasn't you tapping on the other side of the mirror?”

“Isolation getting to you?” He briefly turned to acknowledge someone at the door, but there were no pleasantries between them. They had something to tell him, but he didn't seem to care. Breakfast had arrived. 

“No, sir.” Being a spectacle for more of his laborers was unappealing. You dropped it. 

“Well then. Hungry?”

At least, you thought that's what he had said. Something stirred beneath your hands. Beneath the flooring. 

Tap tap tap.

“Yes, Commander.”

 

 

A few more days passed. Something had been keeping your captor busy in the mornings. Thoughts lingered on what it could be. Stomach growling, you completed your habitual set of pushups in front of Hermeez's droid door, muscles trembling. Food had to be soon, you thought. You had been waking up half starved. 

And then, there it was: your ration and morning tea, delivered by the same hand you could never catch. It was the day you finally did it, hunched over like some starving predator that had finally taught itself to claw a fish from a stream. They were too weak and surprised to combat your grip. 

Ignoring the sounds of shock from opposite the wall, you asked, “Where are we? Why am I here?” 

“Ren has really been keeping you stupid, hasn't he?” replied the small voice that matched the small hand. They were missing their middle finger. The rest were polished red.

Ren, you thought in passing. What luxury, to reference him with such nonchalance. It sounded blasphemous and wrong. That was the conditioning talking. “Yes,” you answered, ignoring the slight.

“You're on Starkiller. The First Order military base.” 

“The? The new Death Star? But I've seen the snow, the wind, this base has an atmosphere!” 

“Yeah,” they replied, wrenching away from your grasp. “Maybe the Republic should have listened to you instead of publicly humiliating you on your holo feed.”

“You know who I am?” On hands and knees, you positioned your ear as close to the slot as possible. But they were gone, their flap shuttering. Footsteps receded. “Wait!” you called. “Does anyone know I'm here? Please don't go! At least bring me nail polish!”

Your open handed slaps resonated against each wall. Palms turned to fists. Shrieking, your knuckles bloodied the surface, splitting on each impact. There was a twisted freedom in controlling your own pain for once. Hyperventilation held your expression in place as your lungs heaved, wracked in sobs. 

Cradling your hands after you had collected yourself, fetal on the floor, you heard something. Not the insistent tapping or scratching. It was muffled music. You stilled your breath further to listen. It came closer. Whirring gears beneath the notes gave Hermeez away. They came through the little door, pausing the music just a moment to absorb the sight of you. Instead of complaining, they scrubbed your blood from the wall, resuming the gentle tune. The droid huddled in the curve of your body, silent as its speakers lulled you. Your muscles relaxed and you took your first full, steady breath since your encounter. The floor was warm against your skin. Exhausted, you drifted away.

 

When you came to, the cell door was open. Groaning from your hands and head, you sat up. A stripe of light from the chandelier had woken you, but your lids darkened as something blocked it. 

“Crawl to me,” said the silhouette. 

“Yes, Commander,” you obeyed, sucking air through clenched teeth as you positioned yourself. 

“What happened here?” he asked, pressing the sole of his boot down on your fingers. “Is my toy getting restless when it isn't played with?” 

“Yes, Commander,” seemed like the correct answer.

The rubber bounced on your raw knuckles, teasing. It didn't feel like fun to you. He backed up, motioning his fingers in a 'come here' kind of way. You followed, putting as much weight near your wrists as possible. The office floor was much cooler. He sat on the edge of a sofa, elbows on knees, watching you sit up and into your usual kneeling posture. With a solid nudge from a boot to the inside of each thigh, he separated your legs. The toe cap dragged between your legs, glistening in the light. He flattened the sole on your stomach and pushed you backwards.

“Alright. Play. Show me that those hands still work. You'll hope so. Without a sound, make yourself cum for me.” 

Before your fingers could appease him, he dragged his sole back down, snagging skin along the way. You bit your lip. He ground his foot against your vulva, forcing your labia apart. Your face distorted at how gritty and sharp the sensation was.

“Good girl. So quiet. Tell me why I'm hurting you like this,” he said, whispered consonants hissing through his mask's speaker. 

“Because, Commander,” you started to say, swallowing a lump in your throat. “I threw a fit.”

“No. Guess again.” His tread ground in a bit deeper, massaging you in unkind circles.

“I-I don't know! Please! Please tell me! I can fix it!” 

“Your body isn't yours to punish, greedy girl.” He let up on the pressure. “Your pain belongs to me. Each facet of you, mind and body. Every experience. Understand?” 

“Yes, Commander! I'm yours. All of me,” you whimpered, pulling your legs back together. 

“And who are you exactly? What kind of girl?” Both of your thighs were smashed down by a boot, flat against the floor. 

“A greedy girl,” you spoke softly, voice breaking. 

“Yes. Sit up. Show me. Quietly.” 

He squirmed as he watched you, squeezing absently at his own thighs. Just the friction from the fabric of his pants was making him shudder. The tremors in your half broken hand, rubbing at your pussy, probably played a bigger part in his arousal, you thought. You focused on watching him, at first just to ignore all of your aches. But then a new one appeared. An ache that was delighted each time he gripped his own, hidden sex. You looked away, hoping the upholstery of the couch would take your mind somewhere else. Your cheeks and chest blushed bright. 

“You want to see,” he said, skimming fingertips beneath the lip of his belt. There was hesitation. “Not yet.” He pulled your other hand away from your mouth. Your cork, as it were. You bit your cheek, stifling a moan. “May I help you?” 

You nodded, ever uneasy at anything he offered you freely. 

He was on you before your head stopped moving. Again, the chandelier made him out to be a silhouette. The red sconces, low to the ground, cast a hellish glow over his angles and curves. You fought to breathe against the air tight glove that pressed up against your nose. His weight went into his hands, both on you. One engulfed your face, smothering. The other strangled, holding you in place by the throat. Your thighs were spread by knees instead of feet. You struggled, grabbing at the silver grooves of his mask. It was folly, pinned to the floor like a specimen butterfly.

“Stop,” he scolded, slipping into your mind. 

Paralyzed, your eyes skipped across his 'face', searching for an expression that couldn't be there. Your arms ceased to take orders from you. They were his. He shushed you, at least you assumed that intention. The noise grated through the metal like sharp static. You hadn't even realized that you had been screaming beneath his hand. 

He didn't waste any time forcing you onto yourself. With little regard for how your split knuckles tore, he worked at your clit in unfamiliar rotations. Your legs jerked at the sensory overload. It was somehow more difficult than your first encounter.

“You have dexterous hands. Not like a warrior. Thief hands,” he decided, getting the hang of using your body. “Graffiti hands,” he added, using your idle fingers to pinch the closest nipple.

The office door opened. It was someone with a face you knew from all of your obsessing. The general, sharp and cold. Symmetrical. He had on the most crisp officer's uniform you had ever seen. “Commander,” he interrupted, terse. “The sector C assembly. You have to be there. With me. Now.”

“Hux. You're early. Has dolly had her ears removed this time?”

“General,” he corrected in a flash, hands behind his back. “To you, _Dahlia_ uses my voice. They told you when I'd be at the elevators to meet. Treat them better. Now,” he looked at you for the first time. There was no sympathy there. He went back to glowering at your puppeteer. “I'm going to start walking to the elevator. Will you be there when I am?” He pointed as he spoke. 

“I will,” the Commander answered after a pause that had to have felt the longest for you. 

“Good.” The general glanced at you once more, since his host had never given him the courtesy of eye contact. He left with as much as he had entered with. 

You looked back up, at Kylo Ren, with his tattered, lopsided robes and scuffed mask. Warped and fiery. What could those two possibly have in common? You imagined them having small talk on the way to their 'work'. Did that ever happen? Did they have friends? Would the triumvirate's third, Captain Phasma, walk in on you next time? Would a woman at least mention his behavior? Dahlia? Who were they to Hux? Had the hand you grabbed belonged to them?

You were a thousand light years away when he spoke and broke you from your stare. 

“If you can't, I'll have to punish you again, a different way. Blame Hux.” After observing you a bit more, he gave up, releasing his possession and strangulation of you. Your arms flopped limp to your sides. Coughing, you pulled your body back together, with the exception of your borrowed limbs. They wouldn't be moving for a while. “Sit up, then.”

He leaned to grab something from the coffee table. Crouching in front of you, he held a strap taught between the thumb and forefinger of both hands. At its center was a sphere. It looked like a crystal, almost frosted like the ice ball he'd liquefied in your lap. “Only I can take this off,” he told you, tapping at the locking mechanism. There was a coin sized node for his fingerprint. He demonstrated, slipping the crystal ball through your lips and settling it between your jaw. With care, he clicked the clasp in place, tightening it so that it dug into your cheeks. “This ball will change when you're frightened. It will also help you stay silent when I wish it. So stay put, and be quiet. We can't have you waking the dead.”

He switched off the light as he left. 

 

 

You woke up with some unholy aches. Something had been tickling you in your sleep that refused to be ignored. You called for Hermeez. No answer. There had been no answer because there had been no question. Only mumbling could be heard past the gag, you realized, wiping away rivers of drool. You heard that same something, slithering. Adrenaline got you moving. Sitting up, you looked all around. Nothing. 

The air was wrong. It felt like the Commander had been gone for too many hours. Dizzy and weak, you stood up. Food had been left out. You sneered with what little of your face you could move. It was fuzzy with mold. How long had it been? You were more exhausted than from before your black out. 

The main entrance was wide open, hallway in full view. You looked around for something, anything, to cover yourself with. Of course, there was your dress, sitting neatly at the edge of the sofa as always. You brought it above your head and let the beads fall into shape over your curves. Hanging across the back of one of the arm chairs was a cloak. One of his. Tattered and worn, smelling sweet and warm without the pungent leather that typically accompanied it. You pulled it on and walked over to your room of confinement. Your eyes caught the tail end of a few vines slipping away through cracks in the window. Hair on the back of your neck stood straight. The crystal glowed red. That hadn't taken long.

You lipped a silent prayer to the cosmos that you were making the right choice as you stumbled out into the hall. That you were passing whatever test Kylo Ren had laid out for you. The hook in your abdomen pulled you to the exit. To wherever you were or weren't supposed to be going. Another hot flash. Another bout of sickness to keep down. 

The corridor to the elevator was empty of people. With erratic breathing, you inched towards it with bare feet. You stole a glance into the cavernous conference room, but it too was unoccupied. As the summoning button gave way to the pressure of your thumb, you swallowed. The capsule door hissed open. No one. You allowed yourself a gulp of oxygen, willing away the panic. 

Down was your gut feeling. Like the murmuring was loudest in the deep. You followed it, selecting the lowest level available. Avoiding others for obvious reasons, you turned up the hood and pulled it to your nose. Broadening your shoulders as best you could, clasping one hand over a wrist, you emulated the Commander to the best of your ability. No one was around. They were off being spoon fed buzz words by that porcelain general.

The floors dimmed from bright white to red as you descended. Layers of earth were getting thicker. Your ride ground to a halt and the capsule popped open. Blood's sickening smell filled your lungs with your first breath. Gagging, you stumbled out. 

Blood. Not a lightsaber then. Unless your captor had impulsively switched to a weapon even more medieval. 

Hallways were silent, save for the whir of generators and emergency lights, pulsing. Ahead, a fork in the hall came into view. There was a body. You jumped when it moved, keeping distance. Their arm reached for the wall as their lungs rattled from the effort. A button. A panic button. Their eyes grew hopeful when you approached. They tried to speak. It was garbled, their lungs filling with blood. 

“Has to know,” they spat, pointing at the button they couldn't reach. You shook your head, hoping they'd elaborate. “Snoke! Tell Snoke! Your master-- hit the button!”

You went to press it, to help the stranger. But it felt wrong somehow. Your hand hovered between decisions. The worker protested with wet syllables, desperate. In a flash, their body was gone, leaving behind only a streak of crimson and the echoes of screams. You sank down, heart hammering, back to the wall beside the button. The screaming continued, ever more distant, until there was nothing. Not even the squeaks of their hands on the waxed floor.

Tap tap tap. Humming. Groaning. Whatever it was, it wanted you to keep following it. A big part of you considered running back to your cell. Then again, maybe your death was the only freedom you'd know. No risk seemed worse than your quality of life. Inching forward, you followed the blood smear into the narrow dark. The creature ticked along the underside of the floor, drawing you in further. You wondered why it hadn't dragged you like it had the worker. Speaking of, there was no further sign of them. Or anyone else for that matter.

You were led to a lab of some kind. Windows lined the walls, giving view to every corridor. Machines ran on emergency power, flickering warnings on screens. Glass tubes spanned the room, floor to ceiling. Like abandoned egg shells, they stood shattered and empty. Except for one. It was a dome instead of a tube, at the center of the lab. Something beautiful shimmered within it. You flattened your hands against the glass, gazing at what looked to be a flower. The whispering behind your skull quieted. Vines stirred, mimicking your bending fingers. You were shaken when eyes looked back at you, until you blinked and realized that they were your own. Metal-glass leaves tilted to reflect them. You should have been scared. It was indeed disturbing, being acknowledged by such a bizarre thing. But you felt sympathy for it. Like you, it was locked away by the First Order. Another victim of the neo-Empire's cruelty. And if the implications the worker presented to you with their last words were true, it was another prisoner of Kylo Ren specifically. You were compelled to free it. Besides, if it was connected to the vines, it knew the complex. It could help you. On top of everything else, it was gorgeous. A gradient of neon purples lit up the petals, shimmering silver. Its curves were elegant and exotic. There were no other options. You had to save it.

There were too many buttons on the machine that served as its cell. The plant didn't let you stay confused for long. One of its vines tapped at the glass, pointing down. A warning was posted: 'KEEP SHUT AT ALL TIMES!' and then a smaller 'don't listen to it'. 

Beside the button was a switch. The symbols surrounding it made it clear that flipping it would cause a fire. Inside of the dome, you assumed. You groaned behind your gag, struck with nausea. Dizzy, you braced yourself against the half sphere, palms slipping in a breakout of sweat. When you chose to ignore the warnings, punching in the button, you were released from the misery. The dome cracked open with a hiss. 

An alarm sounded, loud and ugly. Strobes of white joined the dim emergency lighting, half blinding and deafening you. Concentration was that much more difficult. What a mistake, you thought. Station wide meeting or no... someone had to have heard. Your instinct was to trigger the manual locks on the doors first. 

Finding a way to shut it off was proving fruitless. Instead, you focused on mobilizing your fellow captive. Looking for a container, you rummaged through drawers and shelves. Most were too small. Beakers broke in your stiff hands. Finally, there was a cylinder large enough. You turned it, making sure it was suitable. It seemed sturdy enough, until it shattered, run through with a plasma blade. In pure shock, your arms held nothing where the cylinder had been. There was only the saber, melting a hole through the window before you, its tip stopping a hair's breadth away from your sternum. You shrieked behind the rubber ball, falling back. With the lights pulsing, you caught a glimpse of him, pulling his weapon back through the glass before barraging it with punches. 

No time to lose, you reached for the creature with bare hands. The whispers were music, elated. Though it seemed friendly to you, you couldn't hide your discomfort when its vines reached out. Gingerly, it entwined itself with your fingers and moved up your arm. You urged it along with the wave of your other hand when the Commander gave up using his fists as a tool. 

You ran. Not looking back, you unlocked the door to the parallel hallway. Even through the alarms, you heard the popping screams of the blade cutting a lock away behind you. As you hid in a nearby office, covering the luminescence of the petals and your gag with the cloak, you heard equipment and furnishings exploding against nearby walls. It continued, closer and closer. You shut your eyes and covered your nose, bracing beneath a desk. 

The door to your hiding place swished open. His steps rippled through the floor. He walked past you, knocking on your desk with a cold hilt as he did so. For a moment, he just stood there, idly rolling it around his hand like a baton. He passed you again. You were hopeful. Cover vanished. You scurried away from him, towering over you with the desk lifted to the ceiling. Expecting him to throw it at you, you flinched, but he pitched it into a row of mainframes instead. His voice roared, but words were indistinguishable against the blare of the alarm. With an extended hand, he manipulated your mind. At least, he tried to. Both of you shared a moment of surprise as his reach widened and nothing happened. Thinking fast, he came at you with a right hook. His feet danced across debris while yours tripped and stumbled. You held up your arms for mercy. Something answered your plea. Vines snapped around his wrist, jerking him back towards the door. More appeared, constricting his neck and a leg. The cords were too strong for him to break. His saber ignited, flailing at his faceless assailant, scarring the room with molten streaks. 

In a heartbeat, he was pulled through the door and down the hallway. You followed instead of running. He bent his knees and pierced the floor with his sword, forcing the creature to work for it. It was a stalemate until the saber slipped from his hand, falling to the floor. The weapon refused his telekinetic lure, but nothing stopped your mortal hands from claiming it. He should have been terrified. You tapped on the sphere of your gag and then pointed at him. It was obvious that he was powerless. That, astonishingly enough, you held the upper hand. But you sensed only white hot anger from behind his mask, all channeled at you. You felt for the ridges of the ignition switch, wincing at the temperature and wild vibrations of the hilt in your palms. When you pressed it, he lunged for you, making some ground against the creature with sheer muscle and determination alone. 

One voice told you to drive it into his chest. The other told you to preserve your humanity. Survival, autonomous on Starkiller Base, would be less possible without that monster. The frustration of it brought tears to your eyes. Squinting them away, you approached. You had time to make out all of the dents and scrapes in his mask. His posture dared you. Reaching up slow, you cut one of his arms free with a cross guard. He snatched the saber from you, severing vines and breaking free of the oily cords. 

Panting, he brought himself back to full height and squared his shoulders. The lightsaber stayed lit. You dropped to your hands and knees on the blood stained floor, stretching low in submission. You pulled your fingers back as he came closer, remembering how the tread of his boots had felt. He still hadn't turned it off. You bit down, chewing your frustration into the jaw breaker, unsure of what else to do. Stepping over you, he stabbed the point of his plasma blade through a control panel like a stake. The alarm stopped. He turned back, behind you. Still lit. Crying into the crystal, you curled into yourself. 

“Are you confessing behind that thing? Professing innocence? Or are you just sobbing? Have I broken you, little thief?” You weren't sure whether to nod or shake your head as he circled you, questioning. Your head was yanked back by the scalp. At your level, he whispered, “What the fuck happened here?”

You shook your head to say that you didn't know. Next to your side, he ground the point of the saber into the floor, singing you with the sparks. Your stomach lurched. Roots wrapped around your forearm tight. Vines extended from the flower, growing into the ones that Kylo Ren had chopped. By the wrist, the creature dragged you away from him and into the dark unknown of the hall. At the end, you could make out a doorway, pushed wide open by more tendrils of the plant. In a leaf's reflection, his figure shrank behind you. 

Then, you free fell. Gravity had left your stomach in the lab above. Looking into the light that poured in through a hole in the ceiling, you could see countless vines snaking through the subterranean chamber. It was massive. Screams fizzled out before they reached walls to echo. You scrambled to grab onto a vine, knowing that your shoulder would at best dislocate, at worst rip off, if your weight hit the bottom of your tether connected only to your arm. Death seemed certain, the distance impossible. It felt more like you had fallen off of the planet's surface and had been tossed into space. In the black, your gag blazed bright, like you were some kind of shooting, red dwarf star. The air rushing by you kept you present. One by one, more vines embraced your limbs. The air calmed until it was still. At the chamber's heart, you hung by threads, dress in tatters. The cloak hung in the air out of arm's reach. Jet beads poured free. They bounced from vine to vine, eventually splashing into shallow water below. You breathed. You focused on where you were. Countless feet above, the triangular hole you had been dragged into appeared to be the size of an average moon, hanging in a pitch sky with no stars. Turning your head with care, you looked around. It was too dark to see the oubliette's edges, but there was indeed a bottom judging by the presence of a pool. Adrenaline was wearing off. You could feel that you were held in place by thorns as much as the vines themselves. Getting down wasn't an option. 

Your head split from the grating, groaning sound of a colossal, stone, in-swing door. No light poured in, but steps illuminated, one at a time, as he descended. His saber hummed as he spun it between hands, showing off. The glow of the plasma revealed walls writhing in the fibrous tentacles. He raked the claymore along the wall, tormenting the creature. You could hear it shrieking deep below the pyramid-shaped chamber and in your own head as well. A tendril loosened its grip on your arms. You fell a few feet before a different pair caught you. Your Commander continued, the ferocity of each swing increasing with each step. Holding onto strings tight, you hoped that not all of them would snap. He kept you on his level all the way to the bottom, inch by inch.

Still twirling his lightsaber, he caught the surface of the pool with each rotation, wading toward you. It snapped with each impact, steam frothing upwards and fogging your view. He brought the tip of it to your face, addressing you as you hung upside down before him. With a flick of his wrist, the flower was eviscerated, gone before it could make a sound or fight back. You sobbed, all too aware of your own mortality as the heat washed over you. 

“I 'idn't 'ea' to!” you pleaded, hoping that he understood. Tears ran down your forehead. 

“Then why run?” he challenged, tracing your figure in neon red. Sweat poured to meet your tears as the point hovered by your right cheek. “Hm? Why take this thing?” He gestured at the ashes floating beneath, holding such disdain. Pulling up his glove long enough to unlock the device, he tore it away and pocketed it. Rotating your jaw and closing your mouth was euphoric. With the smallest incision, he snipped a cord from your right leg, setting it free to dangle in the air. 

“Have you seen you, you fuck--” He interrupted by burning the inside of your vulnerable thigh with the cross-shaped metal of his saber. You screamed. The sound of it was chilling, ricocheting from slanted wall to slanted wall of the vast temple. At first you had thought he had hacked your leg off, the agony was so intense. “Fucking! Asshole!” you finished. 

“Thank me!” he bellowed, giving your new cross a quick slap. 

“Commander, thank you,” you sobbed, feeling him try to enter your mind. Again, he failed. “I swear,” you stammered. “I swear I thought you were testing me. Be fearless, you said. I failed. Again. Forgive me, Commander, please!” You had never begged for anything harder, nearing hyperventilation. “Something drew me here! This... plant! I thought it was you! Why would I have saved you!”

You tensed for another burn, pulling your dangling leg up to meet the other. He backed off, pacing the outside of the pool. His strides sounded extra heavy, weighed down with water. The distance did nothing to calm you as you eyed the saber, spinning like a stress toy as he chewed over a thought. Muttering reassurances to himself, his steps slowed. 

“We can keep this a secret,” he said, facing you. 

“We?” you asked in a moment of boldness, centering yourself as he was. 

“Yes.” He came closer. “This temple and what's below it are something of a blind spot for me. Fortunate for us, then, that that means the same for our Supreme Leader. You'll be introduced soon, so hopefully I'm correct. He doesn't forgive as easily as I do.”

“Your Supreme Leader,” you muttered, drained but rebellious. “So am I just getting passed around whenever one of you are bored? Or am I some kind of twisted experiment too?”

“Don't test me,” he chided, ignoring the questions.

Icy rivulets ran down the vines from the ceiling, trickling down your body, washing away sweat and tears. Snow from the surface must have been melting down through the roof, collecting in the three pointed divot in the floor. He held his fingertips to your mouth, requesting with body language for you to bite down on the glove and remove it. You obeyed, holding it in your teeth as he interrupted one of the capillaries with the tip of his middle finger. He slid the moisture along the crease between your thigh and labia. Thinner vines dug into your pivot points, those included. Slipping and sliding, he fixed a pair of the cords to hold your lips open. He gave the exposed, soft pink flesh a few playful slaps before pressing his mask to it. It took your breath away, colder than the steady stream from above. You moaned into the glove, keeping a hold on it. Thorns tried to keep you from thrusting to meet him. He had been denying you for too long, especially with how often he took out your body to play with it. 

“You are testing me,” he confided, dipping naked fingers into your cunt. “How do I punish a greedy little slut who needs my pain? Do I give her too much pleasure instead?” 

“Too much?” you worded through teeth, squirming from his use of language and sleight. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered, amused by the doubt of someone lesser. With his thumb, he stuffed the glove into your mouth until you gagged. You were sopping, and not just from the snow. “I want you to count for me each time you cum. Ready? Cum now, little slut,” he urged, rubbing hard at your clit as he forced the first climax out of you. He removed himself at the last second, choosing to give your pussy a cruel smack at the brink. 

“One,” you cried into your leather gag, riding a dull wave of bliss through the stinging sensation. 

Cupping you with his bare hand, he waited for you to stop pulsing. “Good girl. Again.” He played the same, cruel trick. 

“Fuck! Two!” 

After two, he took pity and lowered your spine to an even level. Blood rushed away from your head to weep from the thorn jabs. By then you were soaked and shivering, gracious for the heat he gave you. Your afterglow hadn't gone away when he focused his attention on your third in the new position. His hips aligned with yours. Or your mouth, depending on which way he spun you. He crouched down to better admire your puffy labia with his sifting, plucking fingers. Another orgasm built inside of you and released. He gave you the whole thing, shaking it from you. You contorted to suit the curve of his hand to feel as much as possible, inside and out, barbs be damned. The glove was ripped from you. 

“Three,” you panted, moaning even as you came back down. “Commander, thank you.”

He, on the other hand, seemed agitated. Anxious, even. He stood and went back to pacing a dry patch of the temple, ignoring your dreamy words of thanks. You watched, curious, spinning ever so slightly in your makeshift swing. He threw a fit. His gloves were thrown aside, saber hitched. You could hear metal scraping metal as he fidgeted behind his belt and waist-high pants, back turned. His hand came back with a silver and black contraption. He made the same sniveling sound that you always made when he took your platform boots off of your feet, dropping it to the ground with a jingling 'thud'. It was heavy. A chastity belt? No. It was the most intricate, sadistic cock cage you had ever seen. He doubled over and braced his hands on his knee caps as you studied it. There were multiple silver bands with what looked like little spikes on the inside, not to mention all of the leather with similar barbs and buckles. Surely, there were tears behind that mask after such torture. You wondered: had he been doing this to himself since his accident in the office chair?

“Commander,” you spoke gently, shaken to see him bare weakness. 

“Quiet,” he warned, breath ragged. 

Regaining his composure, he turned to face you, cock in hand, stroking. You tried to pull your legs together, but the vines yanked your knees back. He grabbed one with his free hand and squeezed as he approached, looking around. 

“Tempting me?” he bellowed into the void of the black pyramid, scaring you out of your skin. The word echoed until it repeated as a whisper. He wasn't speaking to you. 

He grunted, constricting the base of his shaft and sliding it between the crease of your thigh. You stared. It throbbed and bounced. He gripped the vine tighter, groaning, pulling you closer. He shifted his hips to match yours, sliding over you slowly to lubricate the underside of his prick. As he teased with it, he did the same with his hands and the rest of you. Beads rattled under his fingers. The strands hung loose across you, if at all. None of your body was left to the imagination in the remnants of the dress. He pinched and clawed and squeezed, grinding between your folds. Again, there was music. Your body sung along. The rolling of his hips had matched the rhythm, but he started to resist it. 

“Tell me what you want,” he said, focusing on your clit. 

“Four, Commander, please,” you answered, bucking at his friction. 

“Greedy girl. You should want to please me. You will.” He twisted the vines that hugged between your thighs, working the little barbs further into your flesh. “But I'll oblige.” He slapped the burning cross on your thigh with his sex, loud and heavy, four times. You cried out. Four times. 

With a shove and a twist to the tether, he spun your face around to meet his cock up close and upside down. You turned away from it, but he grabbed your head and corrected the move. Straight up, you looked at him where his eyes should be. Aiming to please, you opened your mouth and stretched out your tongue. He reciprocated, kissing the tip of it with his slit. You closed your lips around the bulb, sucking down both of your liquids. He rattled it around, breaking your suction with loud 'pops'. Your jaw muscles were already shaking from the day's overuse. 

With one hand wrapped around his shaft and the other around your neck, he slid until your uvula forced him back out. You coughed, taken by surprise. He tried again, with the same results. 

“Little slut, have you never had your throat fucked?” He continued to make you gag and choke before letting you answer. 

“Not like this, Commander,” you wheezed, spit rolling towards your welled up eyes.

“Relax,” he purred, easing himself past the root of your tongue. He kept repeating it as you thrashed against your reflex to purge him from you. He locked you in place like a vice, sinking hilt deep. Metallic growls filled the air as he swelled further, grinding in circles. 

Then, he removed himself, watching you heave and cry and cough as he pumped over your face. Like a trained idiot, you thanked him without a modicum of conscious effort. He made a pleased noise and said, “You're so welcome,” before plunging in again. The praise warmed your entire being. You held out for longer, but you still choked. “Close your eyes. Listen to me breathe. Listen to the water fall. Relax.” 

You nodded and tried. For a moment, it was scarier than seeing. You could feel every thorn, then, every vine that pinched too tightly. Your heart hammered, feeling the subtle pulse in the cords that mimicked it. His thumb stroked beneath your collar as he smeared your saliva around your face with his other hand. The attention centered you once you recognized the pattern. You slowed your own breath to match his, inviting his girth back into your mouth by opening wide. He steadily sank in. It took all of your willpower not to give in to the tickle or the agony in your throat. You relaxed. 

“Good girl, yes, fuck,” he exclaimed, unhinging your mouth further by the chin and the forehead. It was a relief to let him take control. “It feels good to give in, doesn't it?” he asked, withdrawing as slowly as he could have before pushing back in. You nodded as much as his grip would allow. He set the pace, gradually testing the disciplinary curve. Tears still flowed, splashing as his swinging scrotum slapped you on a loop around the bridge of the nose. He'd let you breathe now and then, dragging copious amounts of saliva to paint your cheeks. You gulped down those infrequent chances at air before he'd bury himself again. Something tickled your nose besides the thick, black hair that curled out to meet you. 

Out of nowhere, he seemed outraged, pulling out. Your eyes blinked, unable to open fully with all of the film in the way. One hand left you. The lightsaber ignited. You protested loudly, but none of your words made it past your latest gag. It shredded through the air above you. Below the floor, something raged as your back met the mosaic of the pool. You could hear the vines hiss as each severed tendril slackened its hold on you and fell away. Sitting up, you wiped your eyes free. Another cord was sliced at his ankle, steam billowing. He unwound a vine that had grown up his leg. Its end was coiled around the base of his shaft, shading it crimson from all of the trapped blood pumping. He tore it off, slinging it away. The hum of his sword ceased, but your pulse remained elevated. 

“We're not done,” he pointed the cooling hilt, beckoning you before reattaching it to his belt. 

You crawled through the murk, trying to ignore the slime. Instead, you kept focusing on ehim. He was already back to masturbating. For the first time, you had a clear view of what had been trapped inside of the cage. You had wondered about his body as much as his face, if his cock was as large and veiny as his hands. It was, and then some. 

“I told you to come to me, not for me,” he scolded. You realized that you had been copying the act and stopped. You knelt and watched. He continued putting on a show, gesturing for you to get closer. The hand that called you over cupped your jaw, massaging it, tipping your head up to drag your eyes away from the sight. His thumb slipped into the corner of your mouth, playing with your tongue. You sucked at it, daring to nick him with your teeth. He withdrew long enough to slap you a few times before returning. It didn't seem to be in anger. Quite the opposite. Slowly, he fingered your mouth with his index and middle. Ripples tickled between your legs, lapping. “Is it just me,” he started to say. “or has the water level risen?” He pulled a foot back to the heel, using the toe cap of his boot to stimulate you. More gently than last time. You nodded like a fool. “Beg me for this,” he said.

“'lease, Comman'er,” you tried, salivating around his fingers. “'uck my 'ace!”

“What was that?” 

“Please! Fuck! My! Face!” you enunciated as best you could with a mouth half full. 

“Keep looking up here,” he told you, smacking the head of his cock on your lips as they thanked him. “Could you cum this way?” he asked, rocking his boot with emphasis. 

“I think so,” you replied fast, opening wide to receive him before he cut you off. 

His thrusts were slow and deliberate as he held your head in place. You could feel each pit and ridge along his shaft from the straps and vicious, metal points. It boggled your mind that anything could feel good for him, not that it stopped you from grinding your pelvic bone over the top of his shoe. 

Pulling out, he gave you a reprieve. Stroking with one hand and angling up, he pulled your head closer. You took the hint, slaking your tongue over the equally broken skin of his balls. Groaning, he pushed you in further until your mouth was stuffed. You sucked, pulling in more until your jaw locked. Your lids were heavy as you continued to look up at his mask, in a daze.

“Cum,” he ordered, freezing his boot in place to give you free reign. You took advantage of the whole curve of his ankle and the texture of his laces. He lifted his leg, and you mewled from the pressure, cumming like he wanted. He clenched up, close behind you. He slapped at your bulging cheeks. “How many was that?” 

You answered, “it's four,” but it sounded like nothing in particular. 

“You're so right. You are a whore,” he teased, pulling you away with a 'pop'. You went to try again, but his prick filled the vacancy. You just nodded and relaxed your throat. “Now, little whore: five. Yes, just you,” he said, noticing your confusion at the absence of his boot. 

You went to work, above and below. 

“Five!” he repeated after a couple of minutes. Your bicep tore from the effort and you whined. You couldn't do it, at least not on the spot and not with split, bleeding knuckles. Judging by the grimace the pain had given your face, he had to know you couldn't. “Cum, little whore!” You switched to your offhand in hopes that it would refresh you. It didn't. He fucked harder until you cried at your breaking point. Then he kept going, even as you ragdolled from fatigue. 

“Ren!” a familiar, shrill voice called from far away. Seeing them was impossible through your filter of tears. You expected the Commander to stop. He didn't. “Ren!” they repeated, less shocked than you. As you listened, something lit up your eye lids like a star. They were above you, shining down a spotlight from the hole. It burned your retinas even deep in the chamber. “Commander Ren!”

“Hux!” he yelled up into the tunnel of dangling vines. In the back of your mind, you knew that the two of you could spend hours commiserating over Kylo Ren. 

“General Hux, yes! Would you mind enlightening all of us up here? Where are the staff?! Did you drag them down there and fuck them too?!” You half expected his spit to rain on you, as hysterical as he was. 

“I'm busy!”

“Supreme Leader Snoke knows your alarm sounded. He's waiting for you to come try to lie straight to his giant, holographic face!” Hux didn't give the Commander time to respond. His spotlight disappeared and you were left even more blind than before. An overhead light popped on in the room above, allowing you to see easier, same for the stone doorway. The power must have been restored to the labs. 

It was enough to take his attention away from abusing his toy. He pulled out and threw you face first into the water to cough and heave. There was nothing around for him to beat on, so you shrank away to be a small target. Several moments went by, and all he did was clench his fists and fume. You almost relaxed. Like a normal person would do, he scooped up his gloves and put them back on, flipping up his hood in the process. With obvious contempt, he gathered the cage as well.

On a mission, he stomped towards you, kicking up gallons of water. You held up your arms, but his grip found your throat first. He yanked you to your tip toes with one arm, bending down to lock his forearm behind your knees. With the strength of his thighs, he lifted you both, your body draping over one wide shoulder. 

He made for the stairs, wasting no more time. The cage was pushed into your hands to free his. It felt illegal to hold something so personal of his, even at his unspoken request. Your body ached as you noticed something else about his device: a urethral plug. Ascending the steps, you swayed back and forth like a sack of wet laundry, hair dribbling down the back of his legs. His sword ignited into the wall. You shrieked, clamping around his torso. 

There it was, a bit different than his usual tantrum. 

The vines cut like butter, but the blade screeched and whined through the stone. He held it in place as he stormed, raking a gash in the temple from floor to ceiling. You covered your ears and shut your eyes.

At the top, he put his saber away. You caught a glimpse of the full chamber from above. You went cold. Against the light, you could make out the dark shapes of bodies dangling from the ceiling. You thought you saw one of them move. Your stomach emptied. Black ichor poured from stair to stair. The door opened. The Commander and General Hux went straight to fighting as they pretended your rosy, split peach wasn't in full view of a squad of snowtroopers. 

You didn't hear a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhhh shiiiit, guys. I *need* more dark magic in Star Wars, so here I am, finally beginning to deliver it. Forgive me if I go off canon at any point, it's been about 15 years since I was fully up to speed on the extended universe. I need to finish Battlefront II so I don't screw THAT up at least.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for hanging this far (lol). I hope you're enjoying more of the horror elements. This fic is about fear and excitement after all. 
> 
> Do you think you could have killed him? Seems a bit risky to me, Kylo's wily af. 
> 
> Everyone goes on and on about the 'bridal carry'... Eat your heart out, Rey. Top the 'fourgasmic, naked, fireman carry up the sinister temple steps that belong to some eldritch horror fuck monster'. 
> 
> I want to write a fic JUST about the HR department of Starkiller Base.
> 
> Come say hey on my [main](https://harl3quinsmil3.tumblr.com) tumblr, or my NSFW [side](https://d00biusc0nsent.tumblr.com) blog that is centering around this fic at the time of posting. Let me know what you love, what you hate. 
> 
> I have a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1274712984/playlist/0GcZkMiMWlEkFGPQlbw2Pq?si=EdXnkmGTTOqo_kXVtNiPww) I listen to to get in the mood to write this.
> 
>  
> 
> -D00bz
> 
> (psst, quick question, you guys are down with Kylo/Reader/Rey eventually... right? right?! if not in this fic, a different one? i tagged f/f and multi for that reason)


	6. Symposiarch, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You attend a party.

6.

 

The transport was filled with laughter. Luckily, it wasn't directed at you. It was bizarre to think about the First Order doing anything for entertainment. That Snoke would host something aboard his ship that invited revelry was out of character, you had assumed. Surely there were politics involved. Looking around, you'd think you were back home, crashing an upper level event to snoop. People smiled and shared their feeds. You itched to reach for yours and then cursed under your breath. It was driving you mad, not being able to see the outside world and what was happening to your name as you rotted away on an icy rock. 

At least you were off of the rock. At least you could soak in the normalcy of casual conversation around you. At least you were still alive after your misadventure in the labs. Stitches and all. Absently, you stroked at them, hot on your arm. The vine's thorns had dug deep. You weren't interested in waking up to more of them getting intimate. You dozed and snapped back. Sleep hadn't been realistic, huddled up on your toilet with the door shut since it happened. While hiding from the creature, you had taken many sonic showers, but you never felt cleaner. It had been a relief each time you were snatched away from the cell, no matter what games you had had to play to entertain the twisted desires of your captor. 

Boarding the ship, you braced yourself to keep up. The Commander had tied your thigh highs even more tightly than usual. It helped. Except for where he had burned you with his cross guard. They hugged the wound tight. Workers didn't stare. They were even less disturbed to see you than their peers on the base, but hardly an eye was batted as you put one platform out in front of the other. Your broken dress rattled, exposing parts of you that it hadn't before. You sighed when everyone caught up to a local ground transport, calves burning. It took ages to span the gap between shuttle and destination, and then more walking. The ship had to be enormous. No wonder everyone was so thin. 

You were pointed to a dressing room. It was oppressive and dark, even more so than the Commander's Starkiller chambers. There were no cushions. No windows. No mirrors or rude droids or vines. Just a black box with essentials. It was the most alone you had been since the first cell. You gave yourself a few moments to sit on the bench of a couch, fidgeting with the veneer of your boot to relieve the sting of your burn mark. Sleep threatened to shutter your eyelids if you weren't careful. After more than a few bobs of your head, you forced yourself back to your feet to check the bathroom. 

Inside, panels brightened. The shower was the first thing you noticed, but the mirror was a bigger distraction. You approached it with caution, keeping your distance, but you soon realized that there was no 'bad feeling' about it. Your own reflection was its most horrifying feature, and the sight brought on the tears, hands cupping your mouth in disbelief. In bright lighting, you could see every mar in your flesh in full color. You shrugged off the dress to get a better view, to see if you recognized yourself with less in the way. But no, you were still a different thing in the mirror. A broken toy that kept getting stitched back together. Bruises from the vines were the most unsightly, every color but orange, coiling around your legs like macabre tights beneath clear boots. Your insides felt no better than the outside looked. No wonder you weren't a person to the Commander. As your tears splashed the counter, the trinkets on the edge of the sink invited you in further, distracting you from grief. 

You turned the silver brush in your hand, admiring the encrusted handle, wishing you could keep it. A knock at the bathroom door caused you to drop it. Heart hammering, you held your arms around yourself in defense. But it wasn't the Commander. It was the cook. You relaxed, covering the worst of your scars from her eyes. Truly, she was a vision in midnight, the illusion and sleeves of her dress sparkling with crystal stars. From her hair, half up on her head, half free flowing, the same stars dripped. 

“I'm here to prep you, Axi. For the party,” she said, shaking a gown of gold for emphasis. “No one knows your real name. Hope that's okay.”

The voice was familiar, though the cook had never spoken. You noticed the absence of her middle finger where she held the dress. Instead of red polish, her nails were painted in blue. She was dolly. They were Dahlia, you corrected in your own mind. And they were more than just a cook or a captive voyeur. They had a smile, a face, and they had called you by your name. Almost your name. They repeated themselves as you gawked.

“You're Dahlia,” you managed, voice weak from lack of communication. You lowered your guard. 

“Oh yeah,” they began, after puzzling over how you knew their name. “Master made a house call before the sector assembly. For a moment I thought Ren had actually had a conversation with you. Yeah. That's me. Has anyone brushed your hair since you've been here?”

“Uh, er, no,” you answered, humiliated by your quality of life. “Master? You're a slave?”

They were quivering. At first you assumed in anger, at you, but no. As their eyes scanned you, watering, it was obvious that their frustration was at your own master.

“Yes. But don't worry about me, new girl. Worry about getting into this and fixing up that face. People will stare less,” they reassured, composing themselves. 

They went straight to work, inching through tangles with bristles and water. Though it had smarted, the human contact had turned your muscles molten. You closed your eyes to make more room for how it felt. Makeup was even better. You savored the gentle attention to your face, smiling when the cosmetic brushes tickled your lips. Dahlia smiled back, you heard from the wet crinkle around their teeth. You opened your eyes. 

“Yours looks beautiful, it's flawless,” you complimented, admiring the sapphire shadow against their warm toned skin. Despite how soft their style was, you could eye muscles beneath the sheer fabric of their own attire. And scars.

“I'll tell Master you said so. He's talented,” they mused, smiling wider. 

“General Hux does hair and makeup?” you asked. And makes you smile, you thought beneath a layer of melancholy.

“Just mine,” they continued, “he takes a lot of pride in showing me off. Especially at these ridiculous parties. His perfectionism is rewarding more than it is exhausting. Sometimes.”

The two of you chatted as their hands pampered you, pulling the bardot neckline over your breasts and tugging the hem as far down your thighs as possible. The dress didn't meet the top of your boots, but you were still wearing more fabric than you had in weeks, even if most of it was in the draping sleeves and the tails of the bow at your back. 

“Is there anything you can't do?” you asked, angling your body to get the most pleasing view of the garment, holding out the bow tails in fun. 

“Oh, plenty,” they answered, losing their sparkle despite a happy front. “We should try to enjoy it, yeah?”

They took you by the hand and led you away.

 

* * *

 

A sharply dressed man stood by a column, chatting with a tower of a high ranking officer, as the two of you neared the main hall. Both of them wore masks. A masquerade? As the two spoke, he showed off a handsome blaster. In his delicate hands, the weapon was too much. In theirs, however, it was a toy. Dahlia dropped your hand to take his while you hovered a bit behind. General Hux bent to kiss their knuckles, the corner of his mouth turning up at them as they bowed in turn. The tall figure broke your fascination with the couple when they spoke. 

To your surprise, they were a woman with a a voice of velvet, as soft as the platinum locks that curved around it from under her drawn hood. “General, you've never told me that you've finally taken my advice. My dear,” she turned to address you directly before he could reply, “you are as breathtaking as a golden sunrise, and that's something I've not seen in so long.” Two pairs of red lips smiled at you, half hidden behind her, hands clutching the bend of her elbows. Her companions wore dresses of mercury and scarlet to match her suit and cloak, necklines low on their bellies.

“Be gentle, Captain. She's the commander's,” said Dahlia, sounding as disgusted as the general looked as he nodded along.

“I'm beginning to understand that,” she sighed, studying your bare skin and the damage he had done to it. “I suppose he's waiting inside then. Shall we, sunrise?” You looked to Dahlia, who nodded, and then to the captain, who led her partners away by leashed, ruby collars. One toted her chromium blaster rifle; the other, her staff made of the same substance. 

An octagonal window encompassed the ceiling of the massive hall. Curtains dangled from it as far as you could see, brushing guests and workers in a sea of couches, food and drink. Red light gushed over the crowd. There was laughter and small talk. You drew closer, listening to the 'oo's and 'ah's, looking up. Staring at the source of the light, it took a moment to make sense. Then it clicked. It was Starkiller. Your stomach dropped and you withered, shocked. Determining its size wasn't realistic, but it certainly eclipsed the Death Star both in size and horror. Your tower wasn't even visible. That explained the light you had seen through the window of the docking bay bridge. The volcano past the horizon. 

“You haven't seen it, have you?” Phasma slipped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Inspiring, isn't it? Proof that the First Order has risen above the mistakes of the Empire. Until you've heard enough of the general's speeches, of course.”

“But it is! That's what this whole party is for,” he corrected. “Galactic war is over, with Starkiller Base as a figurehead, forever. The Republic's stagnant chaos is finished.” Hux looked at you, then. “Surely even you understand that the Republic's time is over, living in that cesspool where Ren found you. Where you murdered our soldiers” He looked up at Phasma. “Our soldiers.”

“Oh, this is all starting to make sense. I know who you are, now, love,” the captain whispered, gripping your shoulders.

“Master,” Dahlia interrupted, “shall we do a lap? See if anyone has started a scene early?” They smoothed their hands over his lapels, leaning in to capture his attention.

“Yes,” he gave in. “Come along.” Hux locked his arm through theirs and gave you one last appalled look. 

“Don't let Hux ruin your fun, pet, these symposiums get to him,” the captain reassured you, herding you over to a server with a jug. They poured a fluted glass for her, giving each of you a blank smile. “Would the commander hate it if I were to hold the rim to your lips and let you taste it?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Yes, Captain, without a doubt,” you answered, looking away.

“A pity,” she grinned, tipping the glass to the mouth of one of her slaves before draining it herself. “Another.” It was refilled before the word was complete. “Do you think I'd poison you?” She flicked her eyes around the room when you were silent. “Shall we find your owner, pet?”

The crowd parted for Phasma like a hot knife through bantha butter, equally fearing and adoring her. She nodded at a trooper stationed in the corner and at another patrolling the hall. Her girls giggled about something in front of you, turning to look before doing so more loudly. You ignored their faces for the numbers tattooed in bars on their necks. 

You heard his voice. Stopping, you searched for a shadow in the crowd. Your heart skipped when you eyed a man in all black, but it wasn't him. He wore no cape, and the eye piece on his full mask was something your Commander would have broken in an instant. The man considered you, leaning against a wall in an almost inviting sort of way. You ignored him to continue the search. And then, there he was, imprisoned by a group of bare faced, bare necked femmes. He held his arms crossed over his chest, defensive and alert. He wore his same, modulated mask, but he had changed clothes for the occasion. Instead of raggedy fabric the color of charcoal and thick leather, he wore pitch black satin, the hems embroidered in threads of gold. Even his belt buckle was made of the precious stuff. 

He noticed you. You smiled, stepping closer. For the first time, he looked like safety. His arms swept his admirers to the sides like a double, outswing door, and he marched towards you. 

“Commander, you loo-” His hand, bound in satin, snuffed out your greeting. He backed you all the way into the nearest alcove, beneath the helix of a staircase that led to overhanging balconies. 

“What is that?” he questioned, emphasizing every syllable with contempt. “Where is the dress I left for you?”

You shook your head in confusion, as much as you could in the vice of his grip, cheeks smashed into your teeth. He let you go to answer properly. “This was the only dress I saw!”

“This was in the dressing room?”

“Dahlia brought it to me!” you insisted, shaken by his temper no matter how many times you witnessed it flare. 

“I told you that I'd fetch you when I needed you.”

“I thought you had sent them, Commander, forgive me! I know how busy you are,” you pleaded, making yourself as small as possible. Which, compared to him, you were. More so than normal.

“I see,” he conceded, centering himself. He held onto both of your shoulders, smoothing over them with his thumbs before bringing his hands together around your throat, caressing your collar. “I'll never dress you in gold, girl. Believe that.” Your heart sank. The dress had given you hope that he'd view you as a person for a change. “Now, stay put. Speak to no one. Go with no one. Eat nothing. I'll feed you plenty after this is over,” he promised, gliding a thumb up to your lips. With rotations between them, he gathered the wetness there, spreading it around until they glistened. “Sit. Be good. I'll return for you.” 

He covered you in his cloak, tying its string in a knot low on your chest. As he pulled away, he snapped at your neckline with a hooked index finger, leaving the tops of your nipples exposed. He turned, and as he departed, you noticed the height he had gained in the heels of his new boots. No wonder he had loomed over you more than normal. 

Normal, you thought, pulling your dress back up.

You sank onto a cushioned ottoman, happy to be sitting down. Your legs muscles had adapted to the boots, but comfort was something they never offered. Your heart rate slowed. As the commander held a terse discussion with the captain, you relaxed enough to absorb the scenery. A difficult feat considering armageddon loomed just above you, its light a consistent reminder. The muntins between the panes of the ceiling obstructed the light in beautiful patterns, hiding lovers in shadows all around you as groups of guests chatted in the rays. Workers (or slaves, you corrected) were kept busy refilling glasses, each one clad more scantily than the last. As the cups were drained, guests were losing their party wear at an alarming rate. It wasn't shocking to you, a former denizen of 'the cesspool', as Hux had so affectionately called the bottom tiers of your home planet. He was right.

Hours passed. 

A slave offered you a drink. You turned him away out of habit with a polite wave of the hand. “Actually,” you said to him, changing your mind. “Please. Thank you.” The Commander hadn't told you not to drink. Fuck it, you thought, taking after Phasma and draining the first go before asking for another. 

Frowning, you stood, dizzy and disgusted from the sour wine. Its emerald hue was swampy in the warm light. Your stomach disagreed with your decisions and so did your legs. Careful with your steps, you paced the corner you had been left in. Laughter permeated the hall, but all it brought out in you was anger. 

Feet stomped and hands clapped above you on the balcony. Curious, you distanced yourself from your ottoman enough to spy over the edge. Through the balustrade, you could see a twilek, of all things on the Supremacy, dancing with a spinning sword in each hand. She was no slave, as her mask suggested that she had received an invitation. Still, she wore only golden chains from the hips up. Her audience was seduced. You took a few stairs, sipping at your drink. It gave you too much courage, you thought. You looked back up at Starkiller. You drank more. Forgetting manners and status, you jutted your empty glass into the view of another server. They filled it, no question, and your head spun more with every swallow. Someone who had had more to drink than you was escorted down by two troopers. The place was well monitored, you realized. A guard on every corner. Except by the show on the balcony, where the passing guards had been. 

At the top of the steps, you watched and waited, looking for an opportunity. You spotted a head of ginger hair. Even with his mask, the general was easy to distinguish. You took a breath, and made straight for him. Your drink splashed all over his fancy uniform when you tripped and caught yourself around his torso, hugging your arms around him with more familiarity than you would a close friend. He jumped. 

“General Hux!” You feigned ignorance, covering your mouth with your half empty glass. “I beg your pardon!” As tipsy as you were, it didn't take much to push the act and appear blackout drunk. You pawed at him a bit, pretending to lose your hold. As he pushed you away, you hid his blaster behind your back and under the cape. “Have you seen my rapist prowling about?” you belted over the crowd.

Heads were turning and Hux was desperate to distance himself from you, waving you away and pulling Dahlia closer. The adrenaline was too much, mixed with the wine. You kept the ruse going, stumbling over to hide your back behind a deep pilaster projecting from the wall. Heavy footfall followed yours. You sipped at the wine, feigning innocence.

“Prowling?” you heard him and his artificial voice, turning the edge of the wall just after you. “Yes, I suppose that's accurate.” He caged you with both arms, leaning in to smell you. “Drinking. Bad girl.”

“Commander,” you said, sickeningly sweet, “you told me not to eat. I haven't.”

“I believe this falls under 'not being good',” he suggested, taking your glass and tossing out its contents on the rug. “Although, I watched you ruin Hux's day, so perhaps I should forgive you.” With condescending little taps, he slapped at your mouth with the bowl of the crystal flute. You arched your back and brought your free hand to the knot of the bow, loosening it. The maneuver was mistaken for enthusiasm. Holding the stem, he dragged the rim down your chin and over your stomach, lifting the hem of your dress. “Should I?”

“Forgive me? Yes, you should,” you insisted, slurring a tad. Music had started playing somewhere, bass quaking the walkway where the two of you stood. It was a great distraction for the subtle movements and sounds you made, tugging the knot over the scope as tightly as the Commander would lace your boots. 

“Why?” His curiosity was genuine. The flute slid over your pussy lips, wedging between them with a wiggling motion. Pressure was persistent until you answered.

“You've spoiled me. I can only go so long without attention,” you teased. “I didn't go far, Commander. I thought I could find you up here. Did you forget about me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” you half spoke and half moaned, the crystal gliding over the hood of your clit in just the right way. You brought your hands between your bodies, grabbing a handful of his satin tunic. He spun the stem between his fingers and the bowl rolled freely between your folds. A couple walked by, staring as your Commander reduced you to a puddle of lewd noises and trembling legs.

“Unfortunately, greedy girl, we can't stay. Leader Snoke is waiting in his throne room. It should just be the three of us and the guard. Whatever you do,” he whispered, “say as little of the labs as you can, but don't lie. He'll know. You need me, whether you believe that or not. I still have so much to show you.”

You held out your tongue and opened your mouth wide before he had raised the glass. Predicting some of his actions was simpler after so many mornings of licking toys clean. Orders had become fewer and far between during play time. With his free hand, he flattened the front of your dress, kneading at your vulva until it soaked through the fabric. 

“Without you, I'd feel very empty, Commander.” You grinned at him through the crystal, head spinning. “But you need me, don't you?”

“It wouldn't please me to have to replace you, if that's what you mean,” he told you, leaning in after setting the flute on the tray of a passing slave, “especially now that I know what an eager little slut you are when you're drunk. Shall we?” He offered you the bend of his arm and you took it, grateful for balance.

Each step down the spiral had you worrying at your lip with your teeth as the knot loosened. You held your breath, leaning on him to keep the weight off of the pointed heels. Falling would mean getting caught, and you had no intention of missing a chance to cut the head off of the snake. Hopefully, you'd make it there before Hux realized his blaster was missing. Looking up at the crater, brimming with its lava, you knew you had to try. 

Kylo Ren led you around the edges of the party. Clutching the cloak around your chest, feeling the tug of forgotten glasses and clothing underneath its hem as you walked, you realized how much more the two of you had on than most everyone else in attendance. Hearing a cry above the other raucous conversation, you looked in curiosity. They were simple to spot, clad in reflective silver. Phasma had drawn a crowd, yourself included. Slow and practiced, she slid a pin through the ass cheek of one of her companions, bent over her lap on a sofa. She had over a dozen along the back of her thighs, weeping red. The other girl knelt at the captain's feet, kissing her as she smiled and cried from the torment. 

The Commander pressed a thumb to your wrist, squeezing it in his hand. You looked up at him then, realizing that you had both stopped to absorb the sadistic display. 

“Your pulse,” he said, “is erratic. Are you frightened? Aroused?”

“Yes,” you replied, looking into the recess of his helmet. There was a hooking sensation at the core of your abdomen as he curled his middle finger in the air before you. His ministrations made your knees weak. Taking your other hand, he brought your thumb to his forearm, allowing you to feel his own blood rush. 

“Would you ever be willing to so fully submit to me one day? With that same face of ecstasy?” he asked you with a soft sincerity that you never expected. “To try?”

“Am I not?” you answered.

“No.” He used more force, and considered you. Each rotation could have been real. “I haven't seen you there yet. When we're finished with Leader Snoke, you'll be sobbing for me, just like them, won't you?” He turned your jaw to watch the captain, two knuckles deep into the squealing woman on her lap. 

“Do you promise?” you panted, lids heavy. 

“I do.” 

He cut you off like he normally did, resuming your stroll through the symposium with your hands clutching his arm. Music was faint as he distanced the two of you from the condensed area of the party. The air was cooler, almost wet, and it sobered you to the reality you had chosen. Fighting back tears, you walked through a hallway with greenery behind its glass walls. It was difficult to see past the foliage, but you could hear running water and the sound of giggling and moaning echoing off of tile walls. 

At the intersection of the T-shaped hallway, there was an elevator. The Commander removed a glove to gain entry. You swallowed, realizing you'd meet the symposiarch soon, and that you'd have to act fast before you were read like an open book. 

Grinding to a halt, the elevator door opened to reveal another vast room, occupied by only masked faces. The dark enforcer had led you to the Supremacy's heart. Walls draped in sanguine cloth offered only a dead end. You drew the cloak around yourself more tightly as the pair of you neared the room's center. The Commander's hand slid down your back. You both went still when it stopped over the body of the blaster. 

You were booted to the floor, in the back of the knees, and then pulled upright by the scalp. Hair pins scattered, the only sound in the room besides your immediate protests. Those closest backed away.

“Start confessing, thief,” Kylo Ren demanded, shaking you around by the roots. All you could manage was incoherent screaming, grabbing at his fingers with one hand and the blaster with the other. 

Someone with a booming laugh spoke to you, interrupting what was nearly a public teaching moment. “Fear my enforcer not, child, he has no power in this room,” they said, drumming fingers on a holo pad. “Welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UH OH. How are you gonna get out of this one?
> 
> This was basically all setup for Ch. 7, which should be available sooner than normal, considering I've already written some of it.
> 
> How 'bout Phasma??? I'm personally 5'2", so her in BIGGER heels, at probably 7' tall just melts me. Yep, my Phasma crush is shining through. Even SHE wouldn't show up to a play party in full armor, I really don't think. I couldn't resist giving her just a tad of Gwendoline Christie's otherworldly elegance. 
> 
> As always, my [main](https://harl3quinsmil3.tumblr.com) tumblr, and my NSFW [side](https://d00biusc0nsent.tumblr.com) tumblr. Come say hey! I do fanart sometimes.


	7. Symposiarch, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You feel a presence in the wind...

7.

 

Snoke. He faced you, smile hidden by a gold encrusted mask, matching the embellishments on your sleeves and bow tails. Sickening. On both flanks, guards in armor the shade of true red watched you, weapons drawn. There were guests in black, masked and armed as well. The Commander had made you feel inferior, yes, but the presence of this 'supreme leader' introduced you to a level of insignificance you had yet to experience. 

Behind you, the elevator swished open. General Hux rushed through, tucking bits of his undershirt into his pants and smoothing out wrinkles as he approached the throne, head held high. Phasma smirked from behind him, taking her time exiting. Out of breath, he bowed and removed his mask. “Supreme Leader!” he called, straightening his back. “I have something urgent to discuss with you! Privately.”

“General, are you here to inform me that you have misplaced your weapon?” Snoke asked, dripping acid in his words. “Yes, the captain made me aware over 20 minutes ago. You're late. Distracted?”

Hux's head dipped in defeat, but he inhaled and went on. “Leader Snoke, you have-”

“No more time to waste on you. Not yet. To the side,” he sneered, eyeing Hux as he emulated Phasma's kneeling position beside her. 

You yanked a tail of your bow, freeing the stolen weapon. The blaster pointed at Snoke and you unloaded as many shots as your finger could manage before you were subdued by a flash of metal and plasma. A rapier-whip, like the one from the temple in the depths of Coruscant. It had smacked the blaster from you, sending it skidding across the floor. Risking a look around, you were surrounded by wielders of similar weapons. So your home invader, years ago beneath the Sith temple, could have been in the room with you at that very moment. Unsurprising. But you could give it little attention, instead looking to the throne to witness the damage you would undoubtedly die for. Three red sparks were frozen between you and the Supreme Leader, who rested his head against the flat of his knuckles as he watched the display. The additional strain in the Commander's grip tore your hair as he held the quivering, sizzling blasts in place. 

You failed. Snoke rose from his seat, robes glittering and trailing behind him as he circled you at a distance.

“The Republic will be humiliated when they discover that you were right all this time. With the achievement that is Starkiller, little vandal, even the depths of Coruscant may know peace. For the first time, there will indeed be order in the galaxy! Do you see, now, how wrong you have been about the validity of your... chaotic nature?” Hux kept his head down as Snoke passed him by, robes dragging over his boots. With fingers like talons, he ran his hand along the back of Phasma's shoulders, urging her to rise from her kneeling position. 

The grip on your scalp tightened as you found your voice. “You point your genocidal cannon in my face, in all our faces, and have the guts to accuse me of being the dangerous one?” You spat in his direction and looked up at your Commander, who was glaring. “What about Kylo Ren? Is he not a mad dog at the end of your own chain?”

Your knees lifted from the ground as he pulled you closer, blaster bolts released to zip across the chamber, sizzling down to molten rings as they pocked the back of the throne. “If I'm a mad dog, then what does that make you, you fucking-”

“Perhaps,” Snoke cut off his apprentice a second time, tapping his fingertips together and crossing his legs as he returned to lounging. He waited, drawing out the tension between you and your insulted Commander until you were released. “But under me, by my will, he has unwavering devotion to Darkness. A noble purpose for a noble line! He cannot hide ulterior motives from me. Neither can you.” 

Your mind was breached and your identity was sliced bare in a blink. Snoke's intrusion was a different experience from the Commander's, precise like a surgical tool, but with the taste of petulance. Still, it was hellish to be under the most experienced knife with no anesthetic. The disgust left you dizzy and nauseous, emotions avoided like exposed arteries. He was colder than a surgeon, going through your memories like an engineer would a droid, combing through code to find the error. He hovered over your time spent in the ruins beneath the lab, but even to you it was fuzzy. “Tell me, vandal girl, what happened below.”

Panic washed through you, blind to consequences. Gargling garbage runoff would have been more palatable than enduring his presence between your temples, which you gripped in both hands in an attempt to alleviate the revulsion. “I was led down to the labs for unknown reasons. While I was there with Kylo Ren, I fell through a hole. Into a pit.”

“What was in this pit?”

“It was too dark to see clearly.”

“There were no lights?”

“Pardon me, Supreme Leader Snoke, but it's difficult to see anything when you're concussing and blinded by bollocks.” 

The captain let her amusement slip, pressing her hand to her mouth to smother it. Conversely, the red room roared with the sound of Snoke's laughter.

“My mad dog took off his muzzle, did he? That is something if true. Is it true, blood of Vader?” Snoke interrogated, grazing the Commander with his elbow as he passed by. 

“Yes, Master,” he admitted, kneeling beside you and lowering his head.

“See how quickly he submits to his better, little vandal? As he should,” he sneered. “The mainframe in the lab destroyed. A blind spot in your memories. A total disregard to discipline. Allowing an untrained girl to pilfer a military grade weapon from one of our most senior officers...” Trailing off, he continued only when Hux's head dropped lower, addressing you. “Letting him keep you was a mistake.”

“All that I do, I do to serve the Dark, Master,” Kylo Ren pleaded from behind layers of tech and metal. His knuckles had to be white beneath the satin. “I beg you. Allow me to use her a while longer. I'm-” Stopped again, by Hux's blaster denting into his face plate through the same magic he himself wielded. His neck twisted too far, too fast as chunks of metal workings soared.

“You forget yourself playing house, child,” Snoke went on, oblivious to Hux's grumbling behind you, “and how dearly I detest that mask. Come to me. Remove it.”

As he stood, his hands went to hidden switches at the sides of his head. He did as commanded, planting his feet halfway between you and the throne, back to you. As the helmet slid off, his master snatched it from his hands, resting it in his lap. A shock of raven hair fell around his shoulders in damp waves. Your Commander went to kneel, but was stopped before a knee touched the floor. 

“Oh, no, no, you've done that already,” Snoke warned, urging him to stand. “Captain Phasma,” he went on, turning to her. 

“Sir?” she acknowledged.

“You appear to be the sole member of your triumvirate that has sense. It would please me if you chose for us,” he said, waving his hand around the room in a way that she understood, gold ring glinting. The high heels of her boots rang in the quiet as she wound through the crowd, pondering your fate. Everyone watched her, with the exception of Kylo Ren, who refused to look up.

“Yours seems the most appropriate. Go on.” She held out her open palm as she spoke to the only figure without some sort of cape: the man with the intricate eye piece. He hesitated, but eventually gave over a coiled cord with a handle. Phasma clapped him on the shoulder, heading towards you next. You bulked at the sheer height and presence of her, let alone the fact that she was armed. She leaned down, offering her free hand.

“Thank you,” you said, unsure if it was genuine or just a part of your new mindset. 

She helped you to your feet, steadying you as your legs shook. “You're familiar with a whip, yes, pet?”

“How do you know that, Captain?” you asked, eyebrows knitting at how sure she had sounded. 

“Just a hunch. So you've had lessons. Good. Time to teach him one,” Phasma told you, placing the weapon in your dominant hand with a squeeze. “This is a neuronic cord. Careful when you press the switch on the handle. It won't kill him.” Warning or reassurance, you weren't sure as she untied the string of the cloak, relieving your shoulders of its weight. She tipped your chin until the back of your head met your back, affording you a glimpse into her eyes, as wintry as Starkiller's surface. “You're lucky I saw you, pet, so that you weren't a surprise. Have fun. Repay me?” Without a smile, she stroked your cheek and bent down, drew your face towards hers, and kissed you. Her tongue dipped into your mouth, sour from the emerald wine. After only a taste, she was gone, leaving behind bloody smears from her gloves and a cherry tinted stain from her lips, given to her by her companions no doubt. She took her place next to the throne, tidying the corners of her mouth.

“Well, go on,” Snoke urged his student. “we're waiting on your manners.”

No one risked a sound as the knight before you unfastened his tunic. He pulled his arms through it, folding it over his belt, exposing his back and arms to the elbow. A wide, black collar that hugged the length of his neck, draping in a half oval from shoulder to shoulder. You looked at the cable and then back to his body, at the scars that defaced it. He had endured the neuronic whip before, among other things. The First Order's top notch surgical tech had done much to hide his physical trauma, but not completely. Your task, which should have felt glorious, was empty. He deserved worse, and you knew it, as unsorry as he was. He mirrored the flower in the labs, dangerous and helpless all the same, but there was no running.

It had been a long time since Cabor had shown you the basics, but you gripped the handle and gave the cable a practice swing, pivoting at your hips and dragging it through the air. It cracked a few feet from his back. He gasped and then took a deep breath, re-squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands in front. After a few more cracks into nothing, you felt confident enough to hit the button.. The power pack in the handle vibrated your arm from fingertips to shoulder, electricity coursing through the whip's core. Its blue light was anything but calming as you kept holding back bile. 

“Just do it!” your Commander barked. His natural voice was alien, unsettling, and nearly as deep as the modulator. In a single sentence, so much of his grim, ageless posturing had gone out the airlock.

Biting your cheek and bending your knees, you swept the cable in a wide arc, landing the fall on his left thigh. Fabric frayed away from his skin, a gash blooming. He inhaled sharply but didn't scream. You repeated it, biting your cheek at the frying, ripping sound the whip made against his back. His head sank and his stance broadened. On the third lash, he fell to one knee and choked back a sob. You looked at Snoke and paused.

“Keep going,” he told you. “Harder.” His fingers drummed the dome of the helmet.

You switched direction, crossing your chest with your dominant arm before snapping it into his muscle once more. Through gritted teeth, he snarled, pride keeping him conscious. Your eyes welled, wishing he'd just let go of it. Blood was trickling in channels and the stench of charred flesh filled the room. You looked away, hand over your mouth, still keeping down vomit. The nausea became worse. A familiar, putrid sensation took over your limbs. Possessed by the Supreme Leader, you planted your feet and twisted your body with all of your power. The fall landed behind his heart. A bone snapped. Cursing, screaming, your Commander threw back his head, sweat soaked tendrils clinging to heaving shoulders. 

“Your soul is rending, little vandal,” Snoke whispered in your mind. “So twisted you are to value the whelp's life. But then again, who could ever compare to the thrills he's given you? Generosity is something of his that I've never had the inclination to break.” Somewhere, outside of his mental prison, your own screams could be heard, voice box shredding. “Your suffering can end if you devote yourself to me, girl. You lust for things that aren't yours, for things touched by concepts beyond your current understanding. So do I. As a pawn of the First Order, pieces out of your reach would be yours to take. You could take it all with the correct moves. Even the knight, if you desire to earn him for yourself on occasion.”

As your body braced for another lash, you caught your hand in the air, grunting and gritting your teeth. Something dormant within you had triggered; something beyond your body. For a moment, you felt a connection to everything through focused nothing. The void in the universe had turned to look at you, and in awe of its omnipresence, your muscles faltered. With a heavier strike than the last, the whip connected with his back once more. Another crunch. Another rib. Nearly horizontal, he wheezed, arms shaking to hold himself up, stripped of dignity. He kept his face low and hidden. 

And at that, the gilded demon released you. You threw the handle to your feet in disgust and sobbed into your hands. So badly, you had wanted some sort of end to your suffering when you had nicked Hux's blaster, not more of it. Perhaps the presence you had felt had been the Force itself, shaming you for giving up so easily. After witnessing the inhuman possibilities around you, you could believe it. 

“Did you collect many masks during your time as a, how have you said it on your little holo, hmm? A relic hunter?” He laughed as though his apprentice, normally so regal in public, hadn't just been reduced to a sniveling heap at the center of his court. “When you took your trinkets and went back to your nest, could you feel them getting heavier? Did they get harder and harder to part with?” In a clawed hand, he turned the helmet back and forth, drawing your attention to it. 

“Yes,” you admitted. 

“These Dark relics you've been hoarding, they all have a certain magnetism to the Force. All have been held by great beings,” he continued, tossing the helmet towards his student, “or worn by them. All marred by their wearer's deeds and misfortunes. Masks have a way of soaking in the Dark Side like nothing else, of severing the human nature of the Light. But in turn, they make one weak. Be careful which mask you slip onto your own face, little vandal, lest you become that which you hide behind. Now.” His tone shifted to address the Commander. “Next time us three meet, I will have proof of your efforts. Lick your wounds out of my sight, boy.”

As Snoke finished his monologue, you rushed to the broken knight, scooping up the discarded cloak and clothes on the way. Trembling and slipping in his own blood at the base of the throne's pedestal, he pulled the helmet over his head, quick to hide from you despite the agony. 

“Get away,” Kylo Ren threatened, reacting poorly to your attempts to help him up. He slammed a fist to the floor and a shockwave rippled outward, knocking you onto your back. You winced, cradling your own rips and tears as you kept your distance. 

It was a slow process, but he lifted himself to his feet, suffocating and stumbling from a lack of oxygen and blood. Your first lash had nearly hamstrung him. Despite his pride, he leaned on you enough to stay balanced, bare arm wrapped around bare shoulders. 

“Commander Ren, please, what do I do?” you asked, hoping he had an idea. You squeezed his wrist to find his pulse, faint and slow compared to earlier during your stroll through the sin menagerie. 

“Somewhere secluded,” he rasped, muscling to the elevator. 

“Not the medical bay?”

“No!” He coughed, unable to force enough air to match his temper. A lung rattled as he braced himself on the railing. 

You hit the button to the main floor, to the T-shaped hallway that had led you to the elevator in the first place. Vibrations from the music intensified. Panels shook and lights flickered. It wasn't just the music. His biceps bulged, crunching the rail in both hands, and you were surprised to not be the target. 

You kept your eyes on the door, which he lunged for as the capsule arrived. Luckily for him, you hooked the pit of his arm over the back of your neck before he could lose his footing completely. The tread of his boots squeaked and slipped on the waxed floor, blood streaks disrupting the monotony of all of the black walls, floors, and ceilings. He pointed down a side hallway. You followed his instruction, leading him to a door with yet another scan lock. As sticky as his hands were, it took him a few slaps before the panels slid into the walls. 

“I was taking you to the bath house! Why are we in a stair well? You're going to bleed out before we get to the bottom!” you chastised, leading him down anyway. His weight was increasingly more cumbersome on your ankles, daring them to snap. 

At last, you stumbled through the last doorway, sinking to your knees as his body went limp around you, sliding to the mosaic. The room was occupied. Phasma's red-lipped companions and the half naked twi'lek turned to look at the sorry sight. 

“Get out!” Kylo Ren hissed, summoning the strength to stay upright by sheer lividity alone. 

At first, the group of women just looked curious, unfazed by the volume and the tone, but then they noticed the blood puddling at your feet. “Master!” the twi'lek shouted, stepping out of the bath and rushing over. 

“Get the fuck out!” he repeated, recoiling from her attention. 

“Master, heal yourself enough so that I can take you to the med bay, this is too much. I can try if you give me a moment to focus,” she told him, shaking her head. Her flippancy with the severity of his injuries had you at a loss, like it was a normal thing. 

Normal, you thought, remembering where you were.

“Let him do what he likes,” said Dahlia, rising up from a sofa in the corner. They refused to look at you as they left, lifting their dress to avoid the mess. The others followed their lead, footsteps sopping as they all strapped on their arsenal. Laughs pinged from wall to wall of the stairwell once the door was shut. What little blood your Commander had left had to be boiling. Adrenaline thinning, he started to fade, getting heavier. 

You took a moment to scan your environment, dim as it was. All of the light was filtered through water, either in the circular pools in front of you or the bath that counted as a ceiling above you. Bodies swirled, casting shadow people to dance over the two of you, their laughing and groaning muffled through what you hoped was a very thick layer of glass or plastic. Though there weren't any vines hanging in the room, there were enough plants to give you pause. They glowed, twinkling. 

“The middle,” he instructed, limping along. 

The floor was blank at its center, couches and tables on one end while the tiered baths lined the other. Once there, you eased him to his knees. Weak, you followed. 

Kylo Ren pulled you to the floor by the ankle, dragging you just enough so that you were in easy reach. He brandished the saber. You jerked away, but he yanked your leg back, raising his hilt. You begged him not to hurt you in as many breaths as it took for him to bring the pommel down on the platform of your shoe. He winced, hammering it down again. You shrieked both times, expecting him to give your ankle bones the same treatment. On the third strike, your boot shattered, viscous fluid pouring out. From the puddle, he fished out a palm-sized talisman.

“Wha-what is that?” you asked him, disturbed that you had been waltzing around with the object in your shoe. 

“Quiet. Later,” he silenced you. 

He whispered into it with a phrase that had been woven into your mind in your dreams: “In umbris potestas est. In umbris potestas est.” The air was charged and the hair on your arms stood on end. “Say it for me. In umbris potestas est.”

“Why?” you questioned, unwilling to unlock a horror. 

“Are you saying 'no' to me?” he asked, dragging the air through his mask as he suffered, which was enough to invoke more terror than a mystery box. 

“In umbris, what?”

He repeated it for you, tersely. 

Taking a deep breath, you spoke the words, more confident with each repetition of the litany. The object floated above his palm, point down, brightening by the second as runes lit up each facing. Its design was reminiscent of artifacts you had handled in the past: obsidian, geometric, and ominous to behold. The hexagon at the top of the pyramid was flat, projecting a hologram that lit the room as you filled it with your voice.

“A sigil?” you broke the chant, squinting as a neon green mandala appeared above your heads. The room was all the more verdant. 

Sipping breaths, he answered, “Yes. Draw it around us. Flawlessly.”

“Copy it? With what?” He offered you an open palm, squeezing it into a fist. Sanguine seeped between the cracks as the satin overflowed from the pressure. “Your blood? With my hands?”

“They're certainly lithe enough. Yes. Hurry,” he added with a voice of paper. 

You started with the puddle he had poured for you, several feet away, crawling carefully so as not to smear your circle. Fortunately, your medium of choice was plenty. Frantic, your eyes darted between the projection and the floor. It wasn't perfect. You fidgeted, thinking. Grabbing a bow tail, you sawed at it with a sharp point of your broken platform, breaking the edge just enough so that it would rip. 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

After a long ribbon had been ripped from its length, you placed one end in his hand. “Hold this at the crown of your head,” you urged, wrapping your hands around his and squeezing it in place. He held onto it with no more questions.

Drawing the ribbon taut, you went to work using it as a makeshift compass. In no time, your Commander had his perfect circle. You continued to use it to copy the angles that filled the diameter. The runes you freehanded, and even though you shook, you were satisfied with their quality. Pride rushed through you, but you bottled it away in a shameful corner. 

With the caution you'd have rearranging logs on a fire, you put your hands on him, pushing him into an upright position. He had slumped as you worked, hand nearly meeting the floor from the effort of holding the pyramid aloft. 

“Commander, what next?” You shook him enough to rouse him from a trance. The projection disappeared. There was darkness until the blood sigil itself illuminated. It cast ghostly shadows on him in the sick light from below. 

“Good girl,” he praised, motioning with his fingers to come closer. “Keep chanting.”

You obeyed, and he joined you in reciting the phrase. Your attention switched to the talisman. Each of its planes began to move, to build itself up and into a different shape, revealing a crystal behind glass bound in filigree. Its transformation completed, crowned by two angled spikes. With his right hand, he flicked one of them. A vibration shook your core, humming through your body the way his psychic manipulations rippled through your mind. At first, it was frightening, alien, but you were soon entranced by its rhythmic pulses and the way the crystal inside spun in time. Your nerves were strummed like a harp by the flicks of his fingers on the tuning fork, and you were lulled into shutting your eyes. 

“Help me,” he paused to inhale, “take this hellish thing off,” he requested, trying and failing to unclasp his belt in the mess of his tunic. The pyramid hung in the air as he employed both hands. 

“But Snoke...”

“Like I give a fuck,” he snarled, “what Snoke wants right now.”

One finger at a time, you slipped off his gloves, sickened by how they sopped and left his forearms stained. Again, you handled him with caution, pulling the belt through the buckle and undoing the rest of his tunic, letting it fall to his sides. You had expected there to be more fabric beneath, but no, just his 'muzzle'. 

You stared a moment too long at the cage and the flesh it contained before reaching for the row of buckles and metal rings. “You're ogling a dying man, you realize?” he asked, running a hand over the device and his length, giving it a few strokes before relinquishing the task to you. He hissed when you took over, swelling into the barbs along the inside of the rings. 

As you unclasped buckles for each band, your eyes wandered over his bare torso. You had never seen so much of his skin, and yet there it was, as human and imperfect as your own. He pulled the urethral plug out himself, tossing it to the side. Legs framing you, he brought you closer, pulling your legs over his thighs and reaching up to tap at the fork with a nail. The ripple was intense. Disembodied whispers followed each one, coating you in goosebumps. Your gaze was drawn into the neon glow of the crystal.

Your body sang, wrapped in the ecstasy of whatever magic the pair of you had conjured. It was seductive, and you didn't care to give in to the way it offered you promises of sensations you'd never even considered. His fingers nearly brought you to tears by merely slipping inside. With his other hand, he took yours, encouraging you to stimulate him as well. You couldn't oblige fast enough, feeling down his naked thighs to where his boots were tied at the knee and back up again. He sucked in a breath when you wandered to his abdomen. Your fingertips grazed a smooth, uneven patch of scar tissue there.

“A gift. From you to me,” he explained, caressing the mostly healed shrapnel wounds of your own stomach. “It was clever to use raw metal against me. I tried to block it. Foolish. Your nails boiled as they passed through my blade. Needless to say, when we met again in your cell,” he leaned in, “I wanted you to suffer for it.” His fingers slid in and out of you with ease as you stroked his cock. “You were so scared,” he moaned, deriving pleasure from the memory. He slipped into your mind as well, licking the fear you recalled at his behest. “Now look at you. You feel safe when I'm inside of you like this, don't you? Yes, I know. Ring it.”

You did as he commanded, flicking one of the spikes like a crystal glass. He pulsed in your hands and you in his as he whispered, inside of you and out. You were compelled to join him. Your legs tickled, and you looked, expecting a trail of ants. It was blood, defying gravity and climbing from the floor to his wounds. His attention between your legs strengthened the longer it went on. He pulled your hips closer, and you deigned to buck against his erection in the absence of his hands, capturing it under your own to grind against your sweet spot. 

With his idle hand, he dipped his middle finger into the puddle of ichor that had been inside of your shoe. It was potent as he brought it to your face, lungs rejecting the cloying stench. He drew a line from your forehead to your chin, giving the stripe on your lower lip extra attention. Your mouth opened for him as he finished painting them. You protested when he withdrew from your heat and tied the ribbon around your eyes. Switches clicked at the sides of his head and you detected the helmet's weight hit the floor. He was mirroring you with the ichor as you listened to the wet noises he made applying it to his own lips. You leaned back on your hands, giving him free reign to slide his prick against your clit however he liked. He took it a step further by grabbing your hips and moving your body for you over his lap. Fighting back a climax, you sank your teeth into your lip, forgetting about your new shade of syrupy gloss. It oozed down your throat, burning like the wine that had long since left your system.

“If you wish it, greedy girl, you may cum for me,” he informed you, “or you can hold out with me until my body mends.” He tapped the fork. “I'll reward you with something soft.”

You nodded, unwilling to make a promise. Your belly twinged at the true shape of his voice, at the sound of air rushing by his teeth instead of a filter, soft and clear. Your heart was beating in your chest so strongly that you could hardly breathe yourself. A dry heat fell over you, and wind swirled sand so convincingly that you sealed your mouth. 

“I've not felt this before,” he confessed, slowing his thrusts across your sex.

His confusion matched yours. A star's warmth could be felt on your skin, and he canceled the spell with the flick of his wrist, catching the pyramid in his palm. You went cold as the room dimmed and fell silent, save for the laborious panting between the two of you. His chest rose and fell beneath your hands, pulling you close. Not speaking a word, he held you until your pulse steadied.

You knew the arms around you were the jaws of a beast, but you chose to forget, all for something soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, hate to cut you off there, but the 'fancy party chapter' has turned into the chapter that never dies. There will be a part three. 
> 
> I hope you guys love Vader parallels for Kylo as much as I do. 
> 
> If you need a laugh after all of the gore, please check out the last song on my [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/1274712984/playlist/0GcZkMiMWlEkFGPQlbw2Pq?si=Nw7nq6jPQDeShtxGUd-8Aw) and keep this fic in mind as you listen. 
> 
> Also, if you're AT ALL familiar with Aleister Crowley... the song above it should give you a chuckle as well. And if you're not, PLEASE do yourself a favor and go read his wikipedia article. It's a trip. 
> 
> main blog: [harl3quinsmil3](https://harl3quinsmil3.tumblr.com)  
> NSFW side blog: [d00biusc0nsent](https://d00biusc0nsent.tumblr.com)


	8. Amaurotic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Commander gives you what you asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, but I'm still here. Hope everyone is still interested! I've lost a lot of bookmarks, I'm assuming from Kylo's horrible treatment. Drastic measures seemed to be needed to make ThesmoKylo sympathetic, to be fair. He's such a bastard. I'd like to also point out that I promise no one ever gets fucked by Snoke in this fic. You're safe! Stop sweating. I would never put any of us through that. Have some "hot mess" Kylo-lingus as a token of good will.

“I've had my fill of pain today, haven't you?” that voice asked, familiar and yet not, so close that you were recycling one another's air. 

You nodded, lips parted, daring him to kiss you, to allow you to map out his mouth with your own. He greeted them, but with a thumb to bar you away instead. The let down must have been all over your face. A puff of air rushed from his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he'd ever managed in your presence. You opened your mouth wider and took the chance to blindly reach for him.

“A kiss is the soft thing you want from me?” he teased, though his words and hands trembled.

“Yes, Commander,” you confessed. 

“Like the kiss that Phasma gave you?” He wiped at your lips with wet hands, clearing away the dried ichor and what little stain had remained from the lipstick. 

You wanted to protest his attitude. As if you had had control over anything the captain did on the Supremacy. “Yes, Commander.”

“I'll kiss you,” he assured, “but you have to keep your hands down. No touching, me or yourself. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded. 

“Good girl. You know I can make you if you can't,” he went on, trusting your fingers to stay glued to the mosaic as his own traced the curves of your chest. 

You nodded and bent to suit him, adding, “I'll try to behave, Sir.”

The cold rushed between you as he stood. Blind, you listened to him groan as he stretched his muscles, testing the strength of his freshly knitted lacerations. Clothing fell around his ankles, followed by the impatient untying of his boots. 

“Crawl to me,” he ordered in that velvet voice, just loud enough to echo. 

Sinking to all fours, you didn't hesitate. The drunken feeling had diminished, but your head spun as it dipped below your shoulders in exhaustion. Fingers stiff from the whip's edge, you grimaced, clawing towards him through the puddles of who-knows-what. He kept his feet just out of reach but within earshot. It was a longer process than you had anticipated, waiting for the sound of water parting for his toes. 

“Sit.”

You obeyed, listening to ripples catch the lip of the bath as the water made room for his absurd mass. 

With eager hands, he pulled your bottom to the edge of the pool. Instead of slapping your legs until you spread them, like he normally did, he massaged your thighs with the pads of his thumbs, easing them open as he shushed you. 

The water stirred, and you wet your lips as an invitation. He caught you off guard, sampling your left breast instead, sucking your nipple between his teeth. A guest above you laughed as you gasped, pleasantly surprised by the warmth and width of his tongue. You chewed at your cheek and resisted the urge to reach up and comb your fingers through his hair. It tickled your stomach as he switched to your other side, showing it the same amount of experimental affection as he rolled the first one between the joints of his fingers. He took his time, almost too much of it, you thought, squirming to feel relief between your legs. 

He stood up straight, his mouth unsealing with a 'pop'. Hands cradled the hinge of your jaw as his cock pressed against your stomach, pulsing between your bodies. You kept still, begging him in silence to align his hips with yours. As if he could sense it, the hum of his presence crept behind your eyes, his own will snagging at your thoughts as he moved through them. Your brow pinched together, managing the discomfort of his invasions. 

“Stay in the present with me,” he requested, nestling into your mind as he did the same between your thighs. He paused, watching, hearing, feeling the live feed of you. You relaxed into the connection, a skill that hadn't come easily through repetitive abuse. “And the not so distant future,” he reiterated, stuck in the same thought you were in: the possibility of his hips shifting to suit you. “I need you to be in the now. To focus on what I do, what you wish I'd do. What my hands do.” They raked down your sides, from shoulders to thighs, skin swelling in a trail behind his nails. “What my mouth does,” he went on, tracing one of the lines with the tip of his tongue, all the way to the top of your thigh where his fingers still dug into a healing bruise. He stayed there, shoulders level with the edge of the bath. “Yes, yes, like that,” he praised you, kissing the crescents his nails left behind, “but stop being self conscious. It's distracting.” His comment had the opposite effect, and your brain scrambled, panicking at what he'd do if you couldn't comply. “Why do you care what I think?” he asked, going back to massaging your legs. “I gave you my bruises because I want you to have them.”

“You prefer me this way?” you asked aloud on impulse.

“Clearly. You took pleasure in mangling my image. Now, your flesh is my canvas to take pleasure in. To paint it how I'd like.” He kissed your other thigh, licking a line across the four scratches there. It stung, but the pain centered you. You were rewarded by the pad of his thumb, grinding circles on your g-spot after dipping into you. “What I've done with your body, what I will do to it... is so much more sublime than anything you've ever accomplished.”

His mouth hovered over your sex, ragged breath billowing across you with each exhalation. He was hesitating. Or admiring. It was difficult to tell while blindfolded. He noticed your contemplation of him, stirring in with the shame and arousal. 

“You agree, don't you, little slut?”

The reply caught in your throat as his tongue slaked from the bottom curve of your vulva to the underside of your clit, bouncing it as he pulled away. He slapped his hands over yours when they moved, crushing them into the hard edge. You went still, but he kept them pinned, taking his time with another pass of his tongue. Both of you moaned, and the sound of it fogged over any logic you had left. 

He knew the motions, but the pressure was all wrong. Your legs shook at the overstimulation, his tongue rubbing your clit too hard, too fast. Your moans transformed into yelps. He stopped, pulling away, considering your thoughts as the discomfort overshadowed the pleasure. At first, you thought it was on purpose, but then it hit you. Your Commander, after all of his domineering and posturing as a sexual deviant, had never taken the time to learn how to please with his mouth. He froze, hands dropping limp into the pool. 

Mentally, you threw the exchange into reverse before his temper blamed you. Leaning back on your elbows, you took a deep breath and spread your labia with a single hand, inviting him to keep going. 

“Commander,” you started gently, “please don't stop.” You imagined his kiss between your legs, of how softly you wanted him to treat you. 

Moving your hand out of the way, he replaced your fingers with his, holding you apart. More delicately than you had ever witnessed him be, he took your thoughts literally, drawing the left set of your lips into his mouth and kissing them, just barely sucking as he pulled away. He repeated the act with the other side, slurping as he did so. With each pang of your bliss, his confidence grew. Flattening his tongue against your hole, sweeping it back and forth, you could appreciate again how wide it was, how much his mouth engulfed you. You bucked against his face, helping him feel you out, trembling when his nose grazed your ever swelling clitoris. It felt as sharp as his mouth was huge, and you found yourself daydreaming of the possibilities of his appearance, of what his eyes would look like if you could meet them with your own. In response, he utilized his whole face as a tool to give you all of the sensations. The thought of your Commander, slathered in your own liquids, was enough to make you clench, wishing for something to fill the emptiness. He obliged, fingering you with a single digit as he sucked your bud into his mouth, laving it. Your climax was building.

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, lifting yourself from the tile to get more. Staying in the present had never been so easy. For a fleeting moment, his presence in your mind was your own, and you could taste a morsel of his own longing, of the ache to grab your hips and fuck you that he concealed below the water's surface. He pulled away, breaking your connection. You whimpered, reaching for him, sliding your hands over his chest and under the black, fabric collar that graced his neck. 

A mistake. 

He snatched your wrists and rose, water pouring over the two of you, but not before you had felt the metal he hid behind the collar. Chains, warmed from his body heat. The little bones in your forearms popped under the stress of his grip. 

“I'm sorry!” you pleaded, opening your palms in submission. 

“I'm sure of it,” he answered, hard on smashed against the crease of your thigh. 

The terror wasn't enough to deter you. You still wanted him, wanted him to make you more sorry, wanted him to mark you with more bruises, from his hip bones for once. Your own acceptance and desire for how he treated you was the real horror, you realized as you arched your back to get closer. 

“Does it make you feel special? That I want to fuck you?” he spat, quite literally. 

Your head turned to the side as the spray hit you on the cheek and in the mouth. Emphatically, you shook your head, assuming it was the answer he wanted. “I'm not special,” you told him, tears falling. With his left hand, he held you by the throat. With his right, he gave you two hard slaps to the mouth, smearing his saliva across your face.

“That's right,” he went on, abandoning your face for his shaft, pumping, “for now, you're still just a whore for me to use. Do you have a problem with being my little cum whore?”

“No! No!”

“Tell me then,” he demanded, his knuckles glancing over your mons as he stroked himself, “how much you don't have a problem with it.”

“Commander, I don't have a problem with... being your little cum whore,” you managed, crying through the whole sentence. “I love it!”

“Fuck!” he cursed, sliding the underside of his erection over your mound of flesh as he masturbated, looming over you. “Does it scare you? Knowing I could spend all of my free time refilling your cunt? Over and over? Every day?”

“Of course it does,” you admitted freely. 

“And yet you want it, don't you?”

You nodded, sniffling, angling your torso to feel more of his hand. He kept control of you by the neck, panting harder the longer he held you there. His movements lost their fluidity as he neared the peak. “Say it out loud,” he rasped, holding on by a thread. 

“Please give me your cum! Please! Please give it to me! Only me!” 

You dared to move your hand between your legs, and to your surprise, he lifted his pumping fist just enough to let you pass. With fingers splayed in a 'V', you opened up to him. You said 'ah', sticking out your tongue, running it over your teeth. 

Grunting, he spilled over your stomach, errant bits landing all the way up to your tits. He reclaimed some sense of composure, nearly sobbing as he aimed the rest towards your sex, tossing more and more with each weakening stroke. As he came back down, his fingers unlocked your windpipe, and you crumpled to the floor, legs floating in the bath. 

Diaphragm relaxing, you expected that to be that. But no, he slid down your front, gripping your thighs with weak hands. Nearly submerged, he reached out with his lips to slurp up the globs that slid down the swells of your cheeks. Scooping his tongue into your depths, he licked away the frosting there. You felt his throat contract as he swallowed it, one puddle at a time. Staring at the blackness, you groaned, melting into the hungry way he ate his own cum out of your pussy. He kissed and sucked at you like he had been before, almost lazily, almost drunk, until he was forcing your legs to stay apart. The room echoed with your whining, so much that you wondered if the guests above you could hear. 

“Cum for me, greedy girl,” he asked, roaming your body. He swiped away a dollop that had landed on your tummy with an index finger, reaching up to dip it into your open mouth. Between his words and his taste and the way he circled your clit with his tongue, he made it oh so easy to do. 

“Commander, thank you so much,” you panted, lost in the afterglow and the tears. 

After a bought of silence, he answered. “You're welcome.” 

He pushed away from the bath's edge, leaving you to cry alone on the floor. You listened to the water, to the sound of him leaning his head back to wet his hair. He ascended the shallow stairs, unconcerned with the mess he made as he rang it out on the tile and then dried it with a towel. 

“They're going to expect me to punish you when we go back, you know,” he warned, lacing his boots. 

“Commander, I-” you paused, catching yourself in a sentence that could be considered 'talking back'. Considering his usual demeanor towards the lightest of offenses, you counted your blessings that he'd shown you almost kindness after throwing him under the speeder with Snoke. You swallowed to clear your dry throat, hyper focusing on the friction of his clothes being slid over skin. Boots approached you, heel to toe. 

You held up your arms in defense, but a hand bundled the neckline of your dress into a fist, dragging you to your feet. Seams ripped in several places as your legs flailed to find purchase. His left hand joined the right, straining away from one another until a tear formed between your breasts. Nothing about it gave you any pain, but you shuddered all the same as the dress split past your sternum under his strength. Then further, until the last thread snapped just above your pelvis. The garment fell to floor, heavy from all of the fluids it had soaked in. 

Shivering, the corners of your mouth bent into a frown. His hands were on you, gentle. Your teeth chattered as you struggled to stay still as he studied you. “Would parading you through the main hall in this state be enough of a lesson for you?” he asked, petting you under the chin with a hand that still reeked of iron. Your brows furrowed and your frown deepened, knowing the answer he wanted.

“No, Commander,” you replied, swallowing another dry lump. 

“Oh?” he purred, combing through your damp hair, waiting for your choice of words.

“I deserve whatever you think is best, Sir,” you bulked, being vague. Another lump. “Just. Please.”

“Please what?” 

“Commander. Please consider that I could have joined Leader Snoke. I chose you,” you pleaded, knowing damn well that you had only done so to avoid aiding the First Order directly. At least as Kylo Ren's pet project, the damage you could do would be lesser. You hoped, anyway. 

His thumb toyed with your bottom lip. “Do you truly think your talents are so special? Snoke understands that we have a connection. It's stronger than he anticipated. Wouldn't you agree?” He stroked your cheek the way a lover would. “I'm proud of you. You did as I asked. You kept my secret, my good girl. The important one.”

Your jaw could have hit the floor at the praise, cheeks igniting. You thought you heard the crinkle of a smile as he wet his lips. 

“Our secret now?” you whispered, leaning in to take advantage of the flicker of warmth between you. 

With his palm pressed comfortably against your jugular, fingers curled around your neck, he answered, “Yes, it seems so. Of course, you knew I'd kill you if you disobeyed me.”

“Would you have? I feel that you need me more than you're letting on after witnessing your... music box. Besides, I thought I was dead no matter what, after that stunt. I could have dragged you all the way down with me. What did I have to lose?” You filled your lungs in case his hold on you took its usual turn. To your surprise, his hand remained lax yet in control.

“You're right,” he confessed. “I needed you, and you gave yourself to me without question. I hadn't expected grief from you when given the upper hand, little one. You move me.” Even with his naked voice, proclamations of emotion seemed synthetic. Sincerity could be felt in the subtle, circular strokes of his thumbs as he controlled and caressed you. One moved between your legs, as it often did, while he was doling out instructions. “Now, for your punishment. Take our things to your dressing room as you are. Then meet me by the stairs where I found you last. It goes without saying that no one is to touch your 'music box' other than me, little slut. Nod for me,” he added, pulling you out of your haze. 

“Yes, Sir,” you answered, bobbing your head and leaning into his grip. He gave your throat an appreciative squeeze before pulling away to gather and hand you the box and the shoes, wrapped up in the rags of the dress. You heard the door hiss open. “Sir,” you began, “my blindfold?”

“Keep it on. I want to see how far your inner eye has opened.” With no other explanation, he pushed you through by the small of your back. 

“Commander,” you mouthed in confusion as the panels slid together behind you, echoing through the stair well. You swallowed, dryer than ever where it counted. 

Climbing the stairs, wearing only goosebumps, you clutched the bundle to your chest, more intent on protecting the box than your own modesty. Slowly, fingertips to the wall, you made your way through the corridor that led to the main hall, vibrations from the speakers guiding you just as well. There were voices ahead, chatting over the bass of music so loud that it shook your bones. Hugging the bundle closer, you knew that detecting footsteps would be impossible, competing against the party's roar. It may have been paranoia, but you could have sworn that the crystal inside pulsed in time with the beat of your heart. The music made it difficult to tell. 

But then, through the air, you felt the pulse of each guest chatting in the archway. Then more. The rhythm was chaos as a new sense took shape in the unused pathways of your mind. You could feel the essence of each creature in the room, from the physical space they took charge of to their smoke trails of thoughts. You couldn't see them and yet you could, weaving through the crowd with carefully chosen steps. Hearts quickened at your passing. From fear or arousal, you couldn't say. The hall was filled to bursting with both. Slathered in Kylo Ren's fluids, you were no doubt quite the sight. The message that you belonged to him was quite clear, with Snoke's golden gown in tatters in your arms. 

Halfway through the sea of couches and party goers, someone was bold enough to step in your way. There was a familiarity in his posture. The way he stood before you and demanded your attention, namely. You could hear gears in motion just above your own eye level, swapping out lenses, clicking into place. The man with the intricate eye piece. You reached out to feel the whip at his side, and he made no attempt to stop you. Your free hand went upwards to meet the cold exterior of his mask, draped in cloth below the goggles. 

“Tell me, relic hunter,” he addressed you with a voice filtered through a vocoder like the Commander's though not as deep. Keeping his hands at his sides took effort. “Was this your dream all along? To entice the darkness with your innocence until it couldn't resist devouring you?”

“Who are you? Have we met?” You struggled to recognize the voice behind the static. If only his words came through the mask as plainly as the stench of alcohol. 

“From all angles,” he replied, tapping the mechanism over his right eye. 

“You need to get away from me,” you warned, the crystal pounding with the fear in your heart as you covered your front more carefully. “The Commander has given me instructions, which I intend to follow. You'll recall that it was your weapon he endured. I'd not press your luck, stranger.”

“The Axiom. Lady Ren, more like. I saw your tears in the throne room. You had your chance to be rid of him.”

“I'm just trying to survive...”

“Didn't seem that way to me.” He backed off, but not before tapping the collar about your throat with irreverence. “Enjoy the music.” As he turned away to flag down a slave with a full jug, his essence tasted of the acidic, green wine. Your lip curled in disgust and you moved on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting A MONTH for this chapter, I've been soooo distracted. Hope it was at least somewhat worth waiting for. You guys are great and I appreciate all the kudos and comments you've left, as well as all of the interaction on tumblr!


	9. Sour Grapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Reader is still aboard the Supremacy as a party/business meeting is winding to a close. After a ritual encounter with Ren in the bathhouse, he sent you off blindfolded to test your new abilities since joining with the holocron, as well as your loyalty and resolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here!!! And I still care about Thesmo, I promise. I suppose the big question is if anyone else cares???? I'm sorry it's been so long. 
> 
> I've switched over to present tense-- sorry about that! Whenever I finally get through this first draft, I'll go back and switch all of the previous past tense to present. Chapter 9 is short and kind of pointless, but I'm going to be adding 10 and 11 immediately, so don't be TOO disappointed ^ ~

A pot shatters near your position, disrupting your focus on the stranger. Chilled wine washes over your feet and you hiss at the way it stings. You set off with purpose, biting down on the fabric bundle in your arms to stifle your frustration. People move out of your way so quickly that relying on your new sense is nearly pointless. Your mind fogs with anxiety, wondering if your collar would be enough to save you from someone with a strong opinion on what you had attempted to do. Picking up the pace, you knock your shins into the edge of a couch, learning your lesson.

The air is easier to breathe once you distance yourself. Adrenaline begins to wear off in the relative silence of the side entrance of the hall. You run your hand over the arch where you had met the captain in chrome and her cherry lipped lovers; part of you had hoped she would have been there, being the gentlest encounter you’ve had so far. She could have made your life so much worse than it already was. 

Maybe.

You neither feel nor hear another person as you walk down the corridor, only the lewd, wet noises between your thighs. Even alone, your cheeks burn. Your partner had certainly missed a few puddles, despite that wide tongue he possesses. Against your chest, the crystal inside the pyramid pulses in time with the spasms of your cunt. You stop to compose yourself, pushing away the thought of how his moans had sounded, muffled between your legs.

It’s tempting to remove your blindfold as you near the hall of dressing rooms. How would you tell them apart? You pick up on the essence of someone, of two someones, before you hear their footsteps behind you. They both plant their shoes on the durasteel like an officer on a schedule and your flight response is a drain on your willpower. You stick to the wall, hoping you can get to a dressing room and duck inside and lock the door somehow.

They’re catching up with you. None of the doors are opening for you as you pass your hand over the panels. At last, a room welcomes you, but not before something cold presses up against your tail bone. A blaster barrel.

“Testing you already, is he? If only he disciplined himself at the same rate. Go on,” he instructs, sliding the barrel up and into your spine.

Focusing, you can’t feel out the definition of their faces in the air. “General?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Your head is throbbing. You reach for it and struggle to stay upright, sitting on the floor of the room you were heading to. Slouched against the wall, still naked but no longer blind, you take in your situation.

Time is missing. You remember the empty hallway, but nothing past that. Your head has been fucked with, surprise surprise. Perhaps the ritual had messed with your head, you surmise.

The realization that Ren is expecting you to come right back to him sets the adrenaline gushing. You’re trembling at the confusion, sleuthing through the immediate clues. Fresh bruises dot your hips and wrists, though you appear mostly unharmed.

But then you stand, feeling the warmth rush down your thighs. You could retch. 

Oh no.

You remember that you had a point in coming here. The crystal.

Oh no.

It doesn’t take you long to find the talisman, safe and sound in the cloth where you had left it. Even still, the panic remains as you tuck it into a locked drawer.

You make for the shower, wanting (no, needing) to scrub whoever had soiled you from your body. At the handle, you stop. Ren would take offense to wasting more of his time and washing away his own affections. On the other hand, he could probably sense remnants of another on your sex regardless. Audibly frustrated, you don’t know whether to hide this from your captor or run to him in honest tears.

Luckily, fear and pain and confusion are all typical for you, you realize. Your shaken visage is its own camouflage. Yet part of you wonders if your Master had been the one to assault you in the first place, that perhaps this is a test of loyalty. The pit in your stomach deepens.

Sneering, you collect a dollop of the cum from your inner thighs, inspecting the webs between your fingers before bringing them to your mouth. The taste is unfamiliar, but who’s to say this isn’t still a test?

You settle with the sink and a rag, wiping your tongue raw in the process, before tying the blindfold back around your head.

Where the trip there had been tricky, the walk back is markedly easy. There’s a crispness to the space that hadn’t existed previously; the ethereal outlines burn bright.

And no one’s essence blazes as harshly as Kylo Ren’s, standing against the back wall like a depraved beacon of pseudo safety and relief. You make a B line for him, steps quickening. His edges soften as you approach, and for a brief moment, a smile cracks across your face. Then tears, heavy tears.

Too late for stoicism and deception, you commit to the truth of your breakdown and press into him, fists bunched into his robes as you cling to his solid frame.

“What happened?” He peels off the blindfold and pulls your chin up to angle your eyes at his mask.

“It’s safe, Sir,” you assure him, trying so hard to pull your mouth out of its frown. “I just can’t take anything more today. Please, please, can we leave? I want it to be just us, away from this fucking party.”

His silence goes a beat too far for your taste, but his hand is stroking your neck before too long, catching the stray tears. You lean into the touch for good measure.

“I’m afraid not yet,” he replies, irritation jagged in the modulator. “But,” he goes on, “we can be comfortable until then. Come.”

He takes you by the hand and leads you to a couch in the corner. It’s occupied, but not for long. You’re tempted to take a seat next to him as he spreads across the cushions, but you’ve belonged to him long enough to know better.

“You!” you address a nearby ‘worker’, holding out your hand for a glass. They fill it for you, and you kneel into the rug between his knees, bringing the wine to your lips. It spills down your chin and you curse at your trembling hands.

Ren takes the cup from you and dabs your face with his sleeve. He tips the liquid into your mouth without a word, continuing until it’s drained dry. “Up here,” he tells you as your head spins, taking your hand in his like a gentleman would ask a lady to dance. 

You obey. He guides your head into his lap, caressing all of you that he can reach. Your shoulder, your head, your breasts, your back: they all slack and melt into the gentle petting. 

The party is more of a film before you than reality, all sex and laughter and chatter. No one’s energy matches the pair of you, and it frightens you to feel a sense of solidarity with the monster holding you close. You wrap an arm around his leg and breathe deeply, sighing through the feeling of cushions beneath your hips and an ample thigh beneath your cheek.

Vibrations from the music lull you to a point of relaxation that you turn to your back and stretch your legs, draping your arms over his lap. He gives your nipple a pinch for your boldness, but says nothing as he massages the pain away, repeating with the other one. 

“My good girl, I owe you so much for today.”

There’s a duality to his words, but you’ve been deprived of comfort too long to care about the future. One day at a time. 

At least those fucking boots are broken.

You stretch your toes while you can, and a tipsy smile curves on your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're *finally* out of this party chapter. We can move tf on. 
> 
> Pllleeeeaase let me know if you're happy to have me back, it would be wonderful inspiration. Btw, fuck t u m b l r d o t c o m for tossing me into the streets ??


	10. Reunion

Here it is again. The ice box.

You pull Ren’s cloak around your body, wringing it for a few, last drops of warmth, knowing he’d be taking it back in seconds. The masquerade is over, though not for you.

The door to his quarters hisses open, and your heart picks up. There’s a new sense inside of you, and it feels something– the thrumming of impatience beneath the floor, in the walls, the ceiling. Disgusting.

The creature– it’s more insistent, more grand than before. No. It’s been this way for a while, you realize, only now you’re more perceptive to its intent, its size.

Ren stops in the threshold, considering the space like an animal pausing to sniff the air for danger. His shoulders fall; so does he.

For a moment you just stare, frozen in disbelief as your body tugs you in opposing directions. ‘Run away’, one foot says. 'Help him’, says the other. Surely he’ll get up, you convince yourself, unwilling to make a move until the situation makes sense. It never does. He remains motionless in a heap of blackness on the durasteel floor.

“Sir,” you whisper, or at least you feel your mouth move in the shape of a whisper. You repeat yourself, wondering if he feel from exhaustion or something else.

There’s nothing. Yet you know better than to believe this is your moment, and it takes all that you have to find the patience to let the door slide back into place behind you. Wide eyed, you circle him, unsure of what to make of his vulnerability. The headache from too much emerald wine is enough to make the critical thinking a chore. Abandoning thought and reason, you approach him, daring to put your hand out flat on his back.

He’s breathing.

With what little strength you have after such an arduous evening, you manage to wedge your arm beneath him and move him onto his back.

You find your fingertips dancing along the imperfections of his battered party attire, pulling at the silken threads, moving up to that ever present mask of his. Your heart pounds at the thought of removing it. It’s all you can think about, but it’s paralyzing. Reaching up, your nails click at the latest mar in the helmet. You’ve heard him remove it, listened to the pressure releasing, but the device is still a mystery. Feeling along the bottom, you have no luck, and so you crawl on top of him to get a better look.

How could he be mad that you’ve stayed put? That you were concerned for your… Master?

You bite your lip, scanning more closely along the edges, and then you feel it– mirroring buttons that move beneath your meddling. You’re trembling now, suddenly afraid to put a face to the torment, to all of the unbelievable things you’ve witnessed since your arrival, to all of the atrocities that drove you into his attention in the first place; frozen at the idea of his hands clamping down on your wrists and punishing you for the last time.

Speaking of hands, you move yours to his to peel off a glove, sliding fingertips along the veins of his wrist before pressing the pad of your thumb in search of his pulse. You warm at the heartbeat, however slow it is, and inspect the rare sight of his skin. He’s pale and oh so human, out cold, vulnerable.

It’s then that you feel it, the pull of his consciousness, skirting around the fringes of your mind. With bare fingers, he traces your bottom lip; you kiss his bruised knuckles, and he wastes no time forcing two fingers into your mouth. They go deeper than you expected.

“I can see you,” he whispers, “in the dressing room–” You go still, waiting for him to go on as he slowly fucks your mouth with his hand. “–removing your blindfold, tasting me. I’m still spent, little slut, more than I feared even, so I have to politely ask you to stop tempting me. For now.”

He pinches a nipple of yours, like always, the way a normal person might pinch your cheek, and fuck, you moan when you think of him doing it harder, and even though he can easily feel your desire of it, Ren refuses to give in to you.

Your eyes go wide when he pulls you in closer with that same pinch, defying gravity to hinge you both upright. He pants from the mental effort, yet keeps your legs locked above his hips. “If you’re a good girl for me, I might let you get away with enjoying your punishment.” His vocoder vibrates against your temple as he carries you to the lift.

“My punishment? Right now?” You barely have the strength to hang from around his neck.

It’s one of the moments you swear you hear a smile in his voice through the distortion. “When I wake you.”

“Where are you taking me?” With no expression to read, your eyes focus on the starlight piercing the window and washing over the vast construction below– a fitting sight for such a figure as Kylo Ren to wake up to each cycle.

“You’re full of questions,” he warns, stepping from the lift and carrying you away. When the door shuts, that darkness swallows you.

The faintest of lights glow red along the floor with each step he takes, leading your back to a soft surface. At least, it’s softer than what you’ve grown accustomed to. His bed. It smells of the stale sweat of nightmares and the simple soap meant to wash it away. You breathe him in deep, smothering any confusion or doubt in your impulses, unfolding for him as he removes himself from you. To your surprise, he kneels on the floor, silent for a stretch of time as you sit up.

“I want you to understand something,” he begins. “What the Supreme Leader wants for you, and what I want, are two completely different things. I promise you, many would be on their knees begging for me to use them if it meant a chance at something more than treading water.”

The helmet pops loose, and you hear its weight rest on the bare tile. Your eyes strain to pick up the red washed edges of your Commander’s face, dimly illuminated by the little lights below, and you can just make out the sparkle of dark eyes coming towards you. “Undress me,” he adds lazily, giving your pussy an open kiss before rising up to capture your mouth against his glossed lips. “Be good for me?” he reminds you, pressing your bucking hips into his bed with a hand to your stomach. He steadies himself with one palm between your hip bones and the other pinned to your throat, looking straight into you.

“Yes, Commander.” The words shred from the pressure. He squeezes more tightly.

“Undress me,” he repeats, sharpening each syllable before easing up on your body.

Still kneeling, though next to you, he waits for you to obey. It doesn’t take long. He helps you ease off his belt and undo his tunic, draping them over the edge and continuing with his pants and boots. The boots are something else now that you see them up close. Fine chains criss cross from buckle to buckle, shimmering like rubies down the tall heel. They’re clearly ornament over function, and painful, judging by the bruises and blood spots left behind. He runs his fingers along your collar and kisses you again, caressing you in ways you’d never have expected, lying you down. You’re caged in the corner, wrapped up in his arms, bent into a little spoon shape, buzzing with contentment as you flirt with deep sleep.

“Lying next to me is a gift, understand? If you leave the bed, for any reason without asking, your life will become an uglier thing,” he breathes down your ear, still stroking your curves as he softly threatens.

You nod, adding “Yes, Commander,” when his grip on your wrist gets too tight. “Sweet dreams.”

“Sweet dreams, (Y/N).”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

For once, there’s a warmth across your face and arms, like sunlight dappling your rigid skin through a patchwork of leaves. Your fingers and eyelids refuse to budge when you will them to. Ah. The tree dream again. It’s been a while… Wind whistles by your ears; they may not be there, but you can still hear it. Tremors in the dirt pulse through your roots while a tingling sensation overwhelms even that– drops of water falling from the heavens to be filtered through your canopy.

You wait for the ax, but it never comes, no matter how lucid you’re becoming.

The smell of the place is what finally brings you back, the stench of old, damp stone and moss and death. Your muscles heed you enough to test your binds. They’re strict. You hear footsteps, wading through still water towards you to pull back your blindfold.

Your Commander stands over you, dressed only halfway. He’s masked and hooded, with gloves that disappear at the shoulder, beneath the cowl. Other than boots and a couple belts, strung around his hips, he’s bare flesh bathed in torch light.

“Eager girl, always slipping from me,” he says with a fondness, tapping at his temple through the helmet. “I’d wanted you to get a bit more rest than this. I know you need more, but we’ve already waited too long to finish, I fear. Be strong for me a little longer, pet? It’s just a bit more to endure this morning.”

“For what?” you go to say, but he stoppers you with the blindfold as you struggle.

“You’re about to finally start repaying me for all the humiliation you’ve caused my Order. Redemption. Ssshhh,” he quiets you as you drop straight into the instant tears of a broken creature, whimpering around your gag as he jabs it in further and strokes your hair. “There will likely be pain, I won’t lie to you, but there’s sure to be ecstasy. Does it comfort you that I’ll feel it too?”

You nod.

“You used to pray. I can feel you wanting to right now. Did that give you more comfort than anything ever has?”

You stare, unsure of what he means.

“This place,” he motions around him. “Isn’t it reminiscent?”

For the first time since you came to, you have a moment to look around. It’s the temple under the lab where in which you had fallen, under the snow, and the two of you are occupying the same space you had before, twisted up with vines and kneeling on a triangular altar. But you sense that’s not the memory he refers to. You think back further, to the temple in the bowels of Coruscant, to your collection, to your first real home.

“Someone has finally been answering my prayers, my pet, and they’ve been hearing yours all along. I wish you’d just understand that I was meant to find you, that every step you’ve taken has already been for me, even before we met. Just give in.”

Your head shakes in confusion as he steps back, thumbing through a moldy book and going back to treating you like furniture in a room. He reads under his breath, tending to bubbling liquids in the background as the hilt shaped scar on your thigh burns at the thought. You hear it pop and hiss as it hits the platform, recoiling from the heat, and it’s in this motion that you notice more about the state of your body. Your nipples are clamped, a chain pulling them low, and not just your mouth has been sealed off, but your other holes as well, stretched far with who-knows-what and locked inside by the vines. Grooves in the altar fill with the liquid as he pours it, wreaking of the same ichor that oozes through the walls of Starkiller. They glow in a familiar shape once filled– the bone structure of the rune you had copied from the talisman’s projection. You keep your stomach down, roiling as he circles you. Tears well again when you get a proper look at the flash of silver in his hand– a dagger with a needle edge.

He shushes you, the blade pressed to where his mouth should be, before stroking your cheek with the hilt. It’s hot, like a living, hungry thing, like everything in the ruins, including the walls themselves. You start to panic, but he snatches your jaw and directs your focus just in time.

“Together, we’re going to shatter the wretched world, (Y/N), and all our destiny requires from you is a reasonable sacrifice of your blood for this half of the ritual. Hold still and keep your mind open to me.”

He opens rooms in your mind with ease once you relax into the sensation like always; he’s seen most of them already, made them his own, what’s there to protect? You’re seeing the night before, the paintings on the bath house floor, the intricacies of the runes. He holds your thoughts there, trailing the dagger’s point down your jugular and cutting into the skin of the center of your chest. He dips a fingertip into the blood that’s starting to weep before copying your work from your memories, filling in the empty spaces in the stone around you. There’s a flicker of throbbing heat inside your cunt when he finishes. You could come so easily if a vine would squeeze you just the right way, so you squirm in place, searching for an orgasm you didn’t know you needed.

At the snap of his fingers, most of your binding loosens. The loss of pressure has you groaning. Ren crawls on top of you, pushing you onto your back to hold down the backs of your knees, all while lining up his cock to part your pussy lips.

“Say it,” he urges, grinding your clit with an erection so swollen it looks painful. His ragged breath suggests the opposite, confident you’ll tell him just what he wants to hear. He pulls the gag out just enough, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth.

“Please use me to–” You pause to grind your teeth. “–shatter the world.”

He leans in close to say, “Only if you’ll rebuild it with me.”

You slide your sex along his, tempting the bulb of his prick to push just a little harder towards your center. “You’re fucked, aren’t you, Kylo Ren?” the small, still protesting piece of you observes, grinding greedily against him.

“You don’t mind that. I don’t have to ask about what you really want, I just know, and to be honest, It hurts that you still don’t realize we’ve been here before, dancing this dance. But I’m leading this time.”

You moan wordless confusion into the blindfold.

“I’ve learned so much since I met you on Coruscant, and took this weapon from you. This thing– akin to a holocron, I suppose. I studied it for so long, and all it really did was bring me back to you.” He removes the pyramid from a cloak pocket, still radiating green warmth. It shifts its shape into the tuning fork, and he flicks it with a finger. It changes shape again.

Its force ripples through you with the pleasure of a lover’s tongue. You’d do anything to feel it again, watching him drag a toy across your g-spot as he removes it from you, replacing it with the trinket, extinguishing its light inside to melt through.

“Thank you,” you admit your feelings, only just audible through the fabric.

“Say 'Master’.”

“Master, thank you.”

“For?”

“For finding me, for making me a part of what little magic exists in this galaxy, for whatever you’re about to do to me. I’m scared, but I want it.”

The heat of blood washes over your chest as he smears more symbols into your flesh, giving your chain a solid tug on the clamps, getting so much harder as he listens to you scream. He devours you; he leans you back, and finally, he fucks you, leaning into you until you whine from discomfort, then withdrawing, watching your bodies meet as he thrusts back into you, over and over again.

He wasn’t wrong about needing to pray. The encounter between you is more and more like a religious experience every second, but praying seems petty when your one true god is already inside of you. Your eyes roll. His hips are far more experienced than his mouth, guiding you through wave after wave. He invites you back into a memory he once used against you to break your spirit in the ice box– a memory of a beautiful body you once drew pleasure from in another corner of the galaxy kissed by the darker side of this Force.

With a snap of the chain between his fingers, one clamp pops off of your right nipple, and you stifle a sob. He takes his time removing the other, digging the teeth of it around before he frees you. Ren softly strokes the marks he leaves behind, worshiping your clit with his fingers.

Tears roll down your cheeks as you beg him not to stop, for more, harder, fuck, yes, please–!


End file.
